It all started with the falcon
by Jhaernyl
Summary: Arthur Castus's Briton sucked -ass-. Isobel had tried to keep to herself, live in the -now- and concentrate on her own life. It was all fine and dandy if not for the fact that Fate didn't agreed with her.
1. Where we get a little backstory

**Author Note **_(added as of fourth chapter)_:

This story begins in 457 A.D. which means that it takes place ten years before the events of the movie.

It will progress, with time, up to 467 A.D. and the events that takes place during the movie this fanfic is based on. There will be OCs both of the 'townsfolk' and the 'knight' variety (but the knights will go down to the canon characters by the time we get to the movie) so you have been warned.

About the ages I will repost part of what I wrote at the end of the fourth chapter:

Looking at the movie, I would say that the boys departed Sarmatia when they were from the age of 12 to the age of 18, I'll hazard (Galahad is conspicuously younger than, let's say, Bors but they are treated as if they've all been serving the same time, which is stupid but I'll go with it anyway). Let's say a year of time, more or less, to get them to Britain and they are from 13 to 19, more or less. Which, given 17 years of service under Rome, puts them in the 30 to 36 range by the time of the movie.

In this fic, at the moment, they go from 20 (Galahad, as the youngest) to 26 (Bors, as the oldest). Since Bors has eleven children by the time of the movie, that means he must already have at least a couple. That is, unless Vanora pops out one for year, in which case he should have only one, but I'm going with him being already a father of more than one kid.

I've decided to make Galahad as younger in age and, as such, having been kept in training for longer so that he has seen less battlefields than the others.

For more detailed musings, look no further than the end of chapter four.

Be warned: there will be Historical Notes with period-related trivia at the end of most chapters.

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Year: 457 A.D.

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Arthur Castus's Briton sucked _ass_.

The place was smelly, muddy and a dangerous hazard for far too many reasons Isobel cared to think about.

Once upon a time, back in the twenty-first century, a friend (with many years of experience playing with both the character and the master part of role play games) had given her a sage piece of advice, while trying to helping her learn how to play.

_Every single period in history, except for our contemporary time, sucked for those involved. No matter the class, there was always suckage for most of those involved whether they realized it or not._

They had been on the topic of historical RPG's, discussing which kind of époque appealed best to Isobel.

Just to put it out there? Not this one, _at all_.

But that had been a lifetime ago, when Isobel was still in the twenty-first century. When she worked in places kept warm through judicious use of electricity, women had earned many rights (above all the right to be vocal about any perceived absence of those rights without consequences) and life had been easy and comfortable.

Now, instead, she was in Arthur Castus's Briton, which sucked _ass_.

You know, just in case someone was wondering about it.

Isobel strived to live in the _now_, instead of dallying on the _then_, because it was the now that counted. Especially when one had to worry about the coming winter, keeping her head intact on the shoulders and keeping her stomach full too.

Twenty-five years old, unmarried, without children and stuck in Arthur Castus's Briton for almost five months, Isobel had long since stopped wondering about how the hell she had gone to bed one day and found herself the next one waking up under the debris of a house in a destroyed village of Arthur Castus's Briton (she had grown fond of the definition, so what?).

While her language degree helped little (no use for Russian in this part of the world and in this time and God knew how people talked in Spain, which still was of no use to her since no one spoke Spanish in Briton) her high school learned Latin (classical studies, who knew it would _really_ come handy in her life?) had been far more helpful in getting her understood.

It had sure helped in making her pass off as a Roman, which was already quite a feat mind you, and she had managed to grab enough of the local language to be able to have basic conversations with most people around her.

To be fair, things hadn't gotten _any_ better until she had stumbled upon the caravan that had taken her to Hadrian's Wall and Arthur Castus's fort. Up until that point she had just been blindly stumbling around, dressed with a dress she had scavenged from a not-too-burnt house (while desperately trying to shut out the half-burnt corpses of the people that had once inhabited it).

It had been quite the shock, finding herself speaking a tongue she hadn't thought would ever come useful for anything (except reading original Latin's tests and dissertations). Not as much as coming to terms with the fact that no, she wasn't being carted around by a group of period-revival's fanatics (to the point of an unhealthy indifference towards cleanliness), but it had still been _a_ shock.

Now, striving to live in the _now_ remember?, Isobel was putting her cooking ability at the service of the men of the fort and her sewing ability too, mending clothes when she wasn't helping cooking food. Occasionally she also lent a hand in the Healing Rooms whenever they needed more hands able to stitch a wound without the person doing the stitching baulking or being nauseous. at the sight of blood (it happened, damn troubled époque and damn enemies far too good for Isobel's tastes).

Her grandmother would have been proud that her lessons in cooking and stitching had come to something, a useful thing at that too. She had always put her niece to work, all the time they had been under the same roof. From Isobel's five to her sixteen's years she and her grandmother had lived two months every summer together and God knew that now she had reason to be grateful for it.

There was food to be cooked and laundry to be mended at the Fort and not as many hands as were needed, which had turned out to be good for Isobel since she now had a roof over her head, work to keep her fed and busy plus money to prepare for the coming winter (heavier clothes were needed and they didn't came cheap).

It had been easy, at her arrival at the fort, to spin the story of a Roman maid who had lost her employers and her husband in the destruction of her village (at the hands of the Saxons because you could pin anything on the Saxon without people questioning you on it in the _now_). No one had made a fuss about it, what with her speaking Latin and being actually able to act like a maid. She had told Arthur the name of the village (she had heard it from the people of the caravan, nodding when they asked if she had come from it) and a vague tale about an attack and getting knocked out by the debris she had woken up under.

She been welcome by the Romans, if not by the Samartian's Knights that worked for Arthur.

Oh, she had nothing against them, really. And they had nothing against her, _per se_. It was more of a despise for all Romans on their part, which she didn't care to challenge (they were right on the general concept, after all) since it led to them leaving her alone (except for the occasional leer, eyeful or offer were she to meet them in the halls of the Fort when they were inebriated and alone but they never pressed the issue and allowed her to scurry away undisturbed).

Isobel had heard about them, back in her time, studied the stories that had surrounded the Arthurian myth. She knew their names and that some of them would die and that Lancelot would end up cuckolding Arthur with Arthur's own wife. She wasn't an Arthurian Legend fan by any stretch but she had been a rabid reader (but now she wasn't and she couldn't afford to concentrate on anything but the now, especially when most of the time she had to care about things like making the effort of translate from Arabic numbers to Roman ones in her head).

She thought it better if she stuck to herself and her life without mixing up with history and changing something that was probably fundamental to the evolution of the world as she had once known it.

So yes, she was trying to live in the _now_ (but she couldn't stop caring completely about the _then _because the _then_ was were her family was and where her friends were and she couldn't think about the consequences for them without feeling nauseous and dizzy).

She tried not to, she tried to live her life (in the _now_, avoiding thoughts of her own _then_) and let them live theirs, avoiding them because she didn't wanted to get involved nor think about the fact that they were going to die. That the shirts she stitched and they wore, the meals she cooked and they ate, the wounds she closed and they wore too were all for men that she knew where dead men walking.

It was a normal human condition, that one. Every single person walking the earth had always been, and was always going to be, a dead man (or woman) walking. She was one too, after all, as much as them.

But … she wasn't going to die soon, not that she knew anyway. She wasn't ill and yes, it was a troubled time and she risked to die a gruesome death (whether by attack or illness there wasn't a nice way to go, discounting old age), but she knew things were going to turn out for the better eventually and she just needed to keep to herself, play it safe and she was going to survive (and live to the aforementioned old age).

Avoiding them made things _easier_. It was the coward way, no doubt about it, but Isobel wasn't a fighter suited for that period of time, had no way to become one without training and no one to turn to in order to get trained.

She knew how to punch and how to kick and how to combine the two to make someone hurt really bad (thank you, years of lessons in Muay Thai). She knew how to climb a wall, how to swim, how to dive and how to skate (Isobel had never settled more than two years in any kind of sport, until muay thai, driving her mother's mad and acquiring a bunch of basics in many sports).

And those things were all fine and dandy but she had no archery training, had never gotten any fencing done and she was quite useless in a knife fight (though she knew that the pointy end went into the other person's flesh, thank you very much). It made her useless, especially in Arthur Castus's Briton, _esp__ecially_ when she didn't know how to ride a horse (she had gotten to experience being in the saddle once but the costs for a proper course were prohibitive for her family so no dice on learning that one).

So she had no useful skill in period-appropriate fighting and, even if she had them, she had no conceivable way to claim them as part of any kind of background she could think of (she had a story ready to justify muay thai but she doubted that would ever come up).

On top of that, there was no way she could convince the Knights to avoid fighting, even _if_ she decided to. Because, you know, still thinking a little of what could become of the _then_ was she to change the _now_.

She hadn't claimed to be a seer (which could always be discounted as the crazy rambling of a traumatized woman) and she had no intel to show that could sustain her claims.

Most of all, these people were knights, who fought because they had to at the Roman's bidding and they weren't going to listen to her anyway.

So when the knights lumped her with the other Romans and made no move to befriend her, Isobel had taken a deep breath of relief and started thinking about the _now_, obliged herself to think of _her_ now and _her_ life and how to keep it safe the best she could in the troubled times she had found herself in.

It was all fine and dandy if not for the fact that Fate didn't agreed with her and was, instead, quite determined to throw a wrench in her carefully constructed (and repeatedly justified, if only in her own mind) plans.

Which was how, one morning, Isobel found herself entrusted with the care of a testy falcon with a broken wing while the owner was too busy being passed out from blood loss in the Healer Rooms, along with a few of his brother in arms (it had been a bloody battle, apparently).

It was not because of some affinity with the animal or any particular kind of bond with the owner (if the Samartian's knights didn't cared for her, Tristan didn't appear to care for humanity in its entirety). She had just been the nearest maid to the healer and the one with fewer things in his hands at the moment.

The other knights were busy doing whatever they had to do, the ones in the Healer Rooms weren't in condition to care for themselves less of all for the bird and everybody at the Fort knew that Tristan could probably be brought over the edge and drove to murder if something happened to the beast.

So the healer washed his hands of it, gave to her the bird and told her to "Take care of it until someone comes to claim the thing".

Arthur Castus's Briton sucked _ass_, had Isobel mentioned it?


	2. Where sleeping is made difficult

If there was something that Isobel really, really, _really _missed from the _then_ it was the Internet. She had no qualms about admitting her longing for that specific progress in the course of human evolution. Not to deny the awesomeness of, well, most of the things available in the twenty-first century but, seriously? The Internet, hands down.

Had she had access to the Internet she could have just typed out '_how to deal with injured birds_' and she would have found all the informations she needed to deal with the falcon in the most swift, efficient and useful way possible. Or she could have typed out '_how to deal with pissed off animals_' and wouldn't had _that_ been useful? Even '_how to exorcise an animal_' would have probably got a few hits.

-§-break-§-

The falcon hadn't took too kindly (to put it mildly) to being manhandled, no matter how carefully and injured wing not-withstanding. It had also expressed its discontent loudly and quite viciously.

As things stood, after a long, fierce and bloody (literally, on her part) battle she had managed to wrap the bird in one of her shirts, careful to leave it's head out but to also immobilize it, at the expense of her hands and forearms (hence the 'bloody' part).

They had already gotten damaged during the washing of the wound (she was relatively sure the wing had already been set, having seen the Healer trafficking with it before she had found the animal shoved in her arms, but washing the wound couldn't be bad for the animal's health) but the beast had treated her impromptu bath as an indignity bestowed on him and had reacted going all out in his efforts to either get free, made her bleed or both. _It_, as she had renamed the little beast in her head, had succeeded only in the second one.

Isobel sympathy for the animal, which had been a lot in the beginning, was starting to wear thin. Still, it was _Tristan's_ bird and it _was_ injured so she had still created the little hellion a sort of nest to rest in, in her chamber, once it had been secured in the makeshift fabric prison.

She had pulled together a fair number of scrapes of cloth, the ones she had been saving to use as patches on shirts and trousers too damaged to be simply stitched back together, and had put them in the darkest corner of her room, taking care to control that the warmth of the fire still reached it.

She had come to her room every time she was passing near it, or she had a moment of pause, to check on the animal and she had even gone as far as to sacrifice meat from her own dinner to the beast appetite (the cook apparently didn't cared much for the health of _Tristan_'s bird, which confirmed Isobel's low opinion of the man's intelligence). It wasn't what had been asked of her, so she had clearly gone far above and far beyond the call of duty for the little hellion.

And yet, the blasted bird had kept her awake most of the night, causing a ruckus anytime she even hazarded half a step away from it and towards her bed. Apparently, the bird expected her to act as entertainment at the expense of her sleep and if she didn't complied _It _wasn't above trying to wake up the whole wing of the Fort with its protestations.

Dragging her blanket towards her, Isobel settled next to the nest of the spawn and watched _It_ from the corner of her eye.

"You're a fucking pain the ass." She growled at the far-too-awake animal, keeping her voice low while she huddled under the cover, drawing her knees to her chest. _It_ glared back, clearly unimpressed with her or, possibly, with the quality of her own glare and growl. It was _Tristan_'s bird, after all, it may have very well been the second possibility.

"I mean it. I did much more than what I could have done and you _still_ keep demanding more and more. Had I known you were such a difficult beast I would have gone and dumped you into someone else's hands." She added, taking care of covering her feet the best she could (she had her shoes on but there was no sense in letting her feed get colder then the rest of her body).

_It_ screeched, though it was far less of a loud sound than the ones that had come out when she had tried to go to bed. It didn't seemed to be particularly happy or satisfied but that was to be expected. Isobel remembered somewhat nebulous notions about animals being able to pick up the human's moods through body language and voice tones and she was definitely Not. Happy. with the little hellion, at the moment.

"Yes, yes. You don't like me, I don't like you. Not my choice, you know? I haven't seen any of the knights, and for once I _tried_ to search for them, and the ones in the Healer Rooms are kept out of it by liberal application of opium through doses of poppy-seed extract." She mumbled, less testily and more resigned, sleep starting to creep on her.

It wasn't the bird fault that it had been entrusted to her nor that the knights had suddenly become so busy that she hadn't been able to track one down. It didn't made her any more sympathetic to the animal plight (her hands and forearms stung and she had to bear it in silence since the Healers were busy with those who _really_ needed their medical expertise) but she couldn't hold on to a grudge the way she would have had things been different.

Also, the beast had finally quieted down, allowing her to close her eyes and relax, her still-clad-back pressed against the blanket and the tepid stones of her bedroom wall. It had been a long day, full of food to be cooked (there was always more cooking to be done with the knights back in the Fort and even more in preparation for the waking of the injured) and clothes to be sorted and prepared to mend (she was just glad that her work in the kitchen exonerated her from the washing routine, the blood must have been terrible to get out), made even longer by her stops to check on the little hellion situation.

-§-break-§-

Isobel had just closed her eyes for a couple of seconds, according to her internal clock, when a furious screech tore her from sleep, followed by a familiar knocking. Briefly giving _It_ the evil eye, Isobel got up and launched the blanket back on her bed calling a brief "Coming!" towards the door.

Her body felt stiff and she had quite a few kinks in her neck and back that she could have done without. It was to be expected, what with sleeping on the floor and everything. _It_ screeched again and made some sort of movement, as if trying to hop up.

"No!" She hissed to _It_, shaking her head for good measure. "It's Ethelind, calm down." She added, in a more soothing tone, while she straightened her dress and patted her head, confirming that her braid had to be redone. The falcon didn't seemed particularly pleased but it settled down, sternly looking at her with a clear lack of approval for her actions. Though luck for the little hellion, she had work to do.

"I'll be back as soon as I can, maybe I'll sneak something for you to eat." She promised, knowing that the animal wouldn't understand her. She also knew that there was no need to inform the beast of her intentions but she still spoke the words out to _It_ nonetheless.

She undid the ribbon at the end of her braid and opened her door, nodding to Ethelind while treading her fingers through the brown locks. A screech followed her out, even though she had quickly shut the door behind herself. The other maid giggled and then smirked, clearly amused by her predicament. Ethelind sometimes was a little piece of shit, something that Isobel dearly appreciated.

"I take it the falcon isn't pleased with you?" The other maid inquired, giggling again while they started down the corridor. Isobel rolled her eyes and tied her head in a high ponytail, tugging the ribbon to ensure the firmness of the knot.

"It's an ungrateful little bastard, or bitch depending on the gender." She grumbled and Ethelind's eyes sparkled with mischief at hearing the coarse language. The other maid knew far too well that Isobel had a mouth that could put some soldiers to shame, though she was careful not to let it run when they weren't alone, and she found it exhilarating to hear such words spill out so easily from her friend's lips.

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"I heard the falcon screeching for quite a while, last night, before the sound finally went down." Ethelind admitted, thoroughly enjoying the way Isobel's eyes darkened and her mouth set. It was such _fun_ being around her when she was in a mood like the one she was in! Her more acerbic side tended to come out in such occasions. Ethelind could count on some really viciously whispered commentary, now, which suited her tastes much more than the silly conversations she could have engaged in with other maids.

Wheat blonde where the other girl had spent brown hair, with rosy cheeks, a full figure and a healthy complexion, Ethelind managed to attract far more attention then her taller friend ever did. Isobel impressive height and plain looks not-withstanding, the girl had managed to avoid drawing attention to herself by virtue of her utter dedication to her job.

If she wasn't preparing ingredients, she was cooking. If she wasn't cooking, she was checking the stockpiles. If she wasn't checking the stockpiles, she was sorting the laundry to find clothes to mend. If she wasn't sorting the laundry, she was mending. If she wasn't mending, she was folding. If she wasn't folding, she was helping preparing more food. It was a vicious cycle that started in the early morning and went on until Isobel retired after supper to crash in her bed for the night.

Ethelind had, in more than one occasion, unsuccessfully tried to draw the other girl out. To go to tavern, have a drink and maybe get picked up by one of the knights. Or maybe, to stay in the kitchen and gossip about the going-ons of the Fort, though Ethelind couldn't really fathom why Isobel refused to share her bed with a knight. Isobel _was_ a widow, after all, and as such she must have already been introduced to the world of carnal relationships.

The only reason Ethelind had managed to think of was that her husband hadn't been all that much and had put her off sex altogether, the poor thing. She had no way of knowing for sure, though, since trying to talk with Isobel about her marriage was as easy as pulling teeth out of a dragon's mouth. While the dragon was awake. And hiccuping flames. And suffering from toothache, too. Yes, that seemed the most accurate comparison she could think of.

"The beast didn't liked me sleeping in my bed. It refused to quiet down until I settled on the pavement near it." Isobel grumbled, hands smoothing down her dress, and Ethelind had to suppress a new wave of mirth. She could _just_ imagine what the woman had told the bird, in the secrecy of the room and with no one to hear her going on and venting what she really thought.

"I'm sure today you will manage to pin down a knight long enough to tell them about the animal." She soothed, hoping dearly in her heart for Lancelot to be the one. The knight had come out relatively unscathed from the battle they had been in and she knew for a fact that he didn't really cared about plain looks as long as the woman in his arms was willing, which meant that he wouldn't be above flirting with Isobel. Maybe he would even go as far as taking her rejection as a challenge!

"Stop smirking. I hate it when you smirk that way. The last time you smirked that way you tried to drag me to the tavern to set me up with Dagonet." Isobel warned and Ethelind was unable to keep her mirth in, giggling as she remembered how fast her friend had turned around when she had caught on where they were going and why Ethelind was extolling the Sarmatian Knight's virtues.

"I hate you." Isobel muttered and Ethelind giggles turned into a full blown laugh. She couldn't help it, especially knowing how false the statement was. She also knew, from experience, that it was indicative of the other woman resignation to Ethelind's schemes, meaning that Isobel would allow her to try to put them in action just to thwart them as soon as she caught up.

It was, indeed, the funniest game Ethelind had ever played in her whole life, for that was all that it was for her. A game between friends, no malice involved and without any serious purpose (except managing to help Isobel get over her issues with enjoying her life a little).

-§-break-§-

So, apparently Isobel shouldn't have preoccupied herself with avoiding and trying to keep out of the way of the Sarmatian's knights, because the knights themselves were more slippery than fucking eels. Going to Arthur Castus himself was out of question, because who was she to ask the commander of the Fort to care for a beast she had been ordered to deal with? Especially when the Fort was the commander had his hands already full and was three knights less? No one, that's who she was.

If only his blasted knights had been easier to pin down! It seemed as if she was playing some sort of demented hide and seek, dividing her attention between the chores she was tasked with, checking up on the animal and trying to find one Sarmatian knight. She didn't even cared about which one, as long as it was conscious and out of the Healing Rooms!

Realistically speaking, she knew she should have just sucked it up, dealt with it and went on with her life, but she couldn't help feeling uneasy in taking care of the bird. It made her nervous, because what if it healed wrong? What if she had screwed up some way and ruined the scout's favorite pet chances of flying again?

Which was why that afternoon, once she had given up (for the moment) on trying to track down a knight, she had managed to get a hold of the healer named Jols and convinced him to take a look at the riotous little hellion, taking the man to her room to check on the beast's health.

"I'm telling you, girl, that I work with humans not animals." The healer protested, ignoring the screeching sounds made by _It_ as he studied the wing, carefully avoiding the talons and beak. He was quite clearly irritated by the many protestations the animal was offering but his hands remained steady and gentle.

Isobel was _horrible_ at lying. Not because she didn't know how to do it (she did) but because her face could have been set as an example of the term "like an open book". She had no poker face, never had it and probably never would. She had been told as much many times and she had, in time, learned to harness the way her face and eyes acted as a mirror as a strength.

So, she either told the truth or twisted the words so that what she was saying was matched to what she was feeling, omitting what she didn't wanted to say. Right now, with Jols, it was half and half.

"Bones are bones. I just don't want it to heal badly, everyone knows that this is the Sarmatian's scout animal and..." She left the phrase pending, wincing as _It_ continued its loud protest and wriggled. She really, _really_ didn't wanted to gather any attention, less of all the attention of one of the Sarmatian's knights. Less of all, the attention of a man whose favorite pet she had allowed to heal in such a way that left the beast crippled.

"Well, it seems to have been set properly, girl. You're doing a decent job, I suppose, keeping it strapped and down." The man grumbled, taking back her shirt and winding it around _It_'s body, in a far better way than the one she had improvised.

"And don't think I didn't notice the way you got cut up. Come to the Healing Rooms, later, and I'll see how the scratches are doing." Jols continued, without waiting from an answer on her part. It was an order but one that wasn't completely unwelcome.

Yes, Isobel could think of about one million things she could do with her time that were better than venture in a room full of doped up people she had been studiously avoiding for the last few months. At the same time, they _were_ going to be doped up and maybe, just maybe, she could finally intercept one of their brother in arms (maybe someone coming to either visit or ask informations about the injured ones) and get free of the animal _before_ his master awoke. Not to mention that she really thought it would be better to let her scratches looked at. A couple of them had looked deep, since the blasted beast had been trying to _carve_ her up.

"Do you think poppy-seed extract would be bad for _It_?" She asked, thinking of getting a good night sleep with the bird as doped up as his master currently was, just in case she didn't manage to get a hold of one of the knights.

Judging by the withering look Jols shot her, though, it was completely out of question. The following tirade about wasting precious resources on an animal who didn't needed them (with underscore of indignant screeching for the newly re-bound falcon) robbed her of any hope for a good night sleep, were she to fail.

She took it meekly, nodding in all the right points and promising not to bother Jols again with such stupid questions. It strengthened her resolve to track down one of the Sarmatians and get rid of the beast, if nothing else.

To the Healing Rooms it was, then, hoping that after dinner the remaining knights wouldn't just scamper down at the tavern to get drunk. Isobel wasn't comfortable with the idea of trying to get their attention there, knowing how it could be interpreted.

_It_ screeched particularly loudly as she set it back down in the makeshift nest and Isobel shot it a pissed off look, mentally agreeing with Jols muttered remonstrations on the stupidity of animals and their inability to realize when someone was helping them.

"Tell me about it." She muttered, getting back up.

Jols mistook her remark for an invitation and started ranting at a higher volume. Isobel didn't found herself too put out by it. It wasn't as if she didn't agreed, after all.

-§-break-§-

AN: My thanks to you Scarlet Rebelle for adding this story to your story alert! It made my day :)

As you can see, things are starting to pick up. I'm not sure how much Isobel's likable, as of now, but I think of her as a person in a bad situation trying to get out it the faster she gets.

I ask forgiveness for any grammar / tense / spelling error. I'm working with the USA dictionary of Open Office but English is not my mother-language (I'm from Italy) and I have no beta as of now.

If any question, doubt or idea comes up, feel free to share it or ask it! I will answer and try to explain at the best of my abilities!

Following the POV of a single person is … interesting, to say the least. There are many things in play, many ways to view things, but since we're in Isobel and Ethelind's heads we see things in the way they see them. Many things that make sense from a certain point of view won't hold in another person own point of view. And I'm interested in knowing what any reader of this story has to say, if she / he wants to put some input in.

Thank you very much for reading!


	3. Where cuts are tended to

Jols was still grumbling when they parted ways. Isobel found him ranting, instead, when she went to the Healing Rooms, after dinner. Gawain, one of the injured knights, had apparently tried to get up and out of the place, almost ripping his stitches along the way.

Isobel wasn't sure if she had helped stitching him or not (she hadn't really looked at the _face_ of the knight she had been asked to help on when she had been summoned to the Healing Rooms the day before) but she bristled anyway. It was the principle of the thing. She didn't pitch in on the discussion, it wasn't her place, but she unashamedly enjoyed the dressing down the knight was given by Jols.

She also jot down in her mind the sounds she didn't knew so that she could ask Ethelind about them. Isobel had never been one to pass on the chance to improve her non-Latin vocabulary, especially in the insult department. First thing most people learned in a language was how to tell other persons to fuck off, after all, and they could always come handy.

She patiently waited, keeping near the wall and out of the way, letting her gaze sweep around. As she was always reminded, in one way or another, Arthur Castus's Briton sucked _ass_. The idea of those half-lighted, bare, unsterilized rooms being the local equivalent of a fully functional ER room and Surgical ward all rolled into one never failed to make her shudder.

Isobel had suffered from a ruptured appendix, years ago, and she was sure she would have never survived, had she been in this _now_. Powders and strange concoctions and … she shuddered again, thinking of how far removed they were from both the Arabic world and the time when the Arabic world was something to behold in the medicine field, with their studies and treaties and Avicenna (at least five hundred years from now her stupid brain suggested her and she ruthlessly squashed the thought, shuddering for the third time in less than two minutes).

"... and stay down!" Jols ordered the blond, unkempt knight, never tearing his gaze from him until the man had settled back down on the bed he had been put on. There was no sign of the other knights, except for the injured ones. Tristan (who was either profoundly sleeping or, more probably, doped up to his gills, given his lack of reaction to the rant) and the one called Dagonet (in his case, he was quite clearly out of it).

She made no move, waiting for the injured knight to settle and for Jols to notice her before she waved slightly, offering him a placating grin. She had discovered that she liked the man, something that hadn't really come as a surprise given his rants. Back in the _then_, Isobel had loved ranting communities and strongly opinionated people. Jols was both. In addition to that, he also ranted about sensible things and he was in the _now_, something that gave him serious props in Isobel's book.

"Oh, it's you. I hope you've come for your hands and not for anything else." He grumbled, as friendly as she had ever seen him, and Isobel chuckled at the jibe. She had learned her lessons about asking supplies for _It_ the first time around.

"My hand and forearms." She confirmed, coming nearer and offering her injured appendages to him, trying to ignore the way the knight had focused his attention on her, vaguely interested and quite openly bored out of his mind.

"What happened?" Gawain asked, voice slightly slurred, trying for her moment to prop himself on his elbow. Jols caught him mid-move, though, and a single look was enough for the man to lower himself back down, his hands coming slightly up in a show of surrender.

Jols didn't asked for her permission or anything. He just moved and took her with him, getting her nearer to the bed were the knight was lying. He kept working on her, oblivious to her discomfort as he undid the makeshift bandages she had made for herself, letting them drop down.

Something else to be washed, along with the strips of cloth that had been used to bind the knights wounds the first time around, Isobel thought. She looked at the stained cloth pooling on the ground and avoided looking Gawain's face, missing his surprised look.

"The other healer gave her Tristan's falcon to look at, didn't bothered telling her how to handle it. He probably didn't knew how to either." Jols tone suggested quite clearly how low he thought of his colleague but he didn't expounded on the why's of the dislike between the two. His voice petered out, instead, in a low indistinct grumble.

"What? But why? That falcon knows how to take care of herself and it's not as if she tolerates anyone outside of Tristan." Gawain protested and Isobel had to bit her tongue to avoid a sarcastic reply. Instead, she choose to concentrate on the fact that _It_ apparently was a she, something that she hadn't been sure of (she knew fuck all about falconry or how to distinguish a male bird from a female bird, except for vague notions about differently colored feathers).

"The beast wing is broken." Jols answered, and Isobel let him since Gawain hadn't spoke to her, dismissing her completely from the conversation. Which was rude and it was a negative mark in her own personal columns of likes and dislikes in a man, but didn't really surprised her considering the time period and all. In the end, it was even better that way, since it spared her the attention of the knight.

"They gave it to Isobel to take care of until the owner is able to care for it himself." The healer continued, making a point of saying her name, which surprised her a little. She raised her gaze from the floor and noticed that, while Jols was studying her now bare hands and forearms, Gawain was looking at her, clearly sizing her up.

"What?" She snapped, unnerved and nervous. "I'm doing what I can, it's not as if I know something about falcons." She continued, immediately defending herself as she squared her shoulders and tried to took a not-too-obvious deep breath.

Isobel knew that she would have been better off keeping her mouth shout and her gaze down, but she couldn't help it. She was nervous, fidgety, as she tried to remember what the legends had told of Gawain in her time.

He was supposed to be son to Morgause, Arthur's sister, with a handful of brothers, Mordred included at one point or another. On this one, Isobel called bullshit since Arthur was half Celt and half Roman but nothing Sarmatian, while Gawain was fully Sarmatian from what she had heard in the laundry room.

In the legends he was supposed to be brash but formidable. There was something about his strength coming and going that she couldn't remember well, something about the moon or the sun. Whatever, she called bullshit on the last one too. Formidable and brash Gawain could very well be, what with having survived the battle but at the cost of being in the infirmary. Friends of young knights said the legends as well. This could have been given his rather well-known friendship-handling of Galahad (just because she avoided the knights in person didn't mean she didn't listened about what was said about them, especially since she would have had to be deaf not to).

A defender of women, she thought she remembered but wasn't really sure about. Whatever, it wasn't as if chivalry really existed there in the _now_ and she hadn't recollection of any notable episode in which he had shined as a Maiden's Knight, except for the many times he had literally being as much to the maids he had took in his bed.

But then, wasn't Galahad supposed to be Lancelot's son? And Bors were supposed to be celibate, too, and Dagonet's a jester who fled at the slightest hint of real battle. Quite a load of bullshit, indeed, but that was probably due to the Dark Ages, the lack of proper historian and that French guy Chrétien De-something.

With a grimace, Isobel was pulled back in the _now _by Gawain's laugh, berating herself for letting her mind wander. She must have been quite a spectacle, she remarked in her mind, silently looking at the dumbstruck knight, while Jols prodded and studied the wounds that _It_ had managed to give her.

Gawain was quite openly amused, not at all taken aback by the harsh tone of her words. He was looking at her with an expression full of mirth and she really hoped that whatever concoction Jols had given him to drink would stop him from remembering her face clearly. She _really_ had no need for further complications in her life.

"I'm sorry, it wasn't my intention to upset you. I just don't remember seeing you around and I'm sure I should have noticed someone, apart from Tristan, willing to put up with Iseult." He explained, smiling at her in a disarming way that tugged at her mind (and her so-called 'loins' too, a little) far too much for her to be comfortable with it.

Stupid charming knight.

It was at that point that her brain suddenly halted and did a rewind back to a little tidbit of information that she had, for the last few moments, bypassed distracted as she was by Gawain's smile (stupid charming knight, it bore repeating).

Iseult? As in Tristan and Iseult? The hell? _It_ was _Iseult_? That temperamental little hellion of a beast was supposed to be the fair and sweet maiden that had fallen in love, reciprocated too, with Tristan and brought a bitter end over both their heads?

Luckily, Jols spoke again before she could finish that train of thought. His voice kept her grounded down, gave her something to concentrate on and cut off any possible need for her to regroup enough brain cells to answer something coherent and possibly intelligent to the Sarmatian's words.

"I'm going to put some paste on it, but I think one of the cuts on the hand is going to leave a little scar." The healer declared, letting go of her in order to move towards his work bench.

Isobel concentrated her gaze on her hands and kept silent, ignoring the part of her brain that was busy laughing itself sick at the idea of the temperamental falcon, currently housed in her bedroom, becoming an adulterous Irish princess somewhere during the passing of the centuries. _That_ one was _priceless_.

She supposed that the cut that was going to scar was the cut _It_ (she refused to think of the falcon with any other name until she was alone in a closed room and free to laugh at her heart content) had left on the side of her left hand. Gently, she traced a nail just under it, studying the way the skin tensed and the cut pinged with hurt.

"Leave it be, girl!" Jols reprimanded her and she stiffened, letting her hands drop, her gaze turning to Gawain when she heard the chuckling he was trying to hide.

"You're back to girl." The knight chuckled, in a low voice that apparently evaded Jols hearing. His mouth was turned upwards by his laugh and his eyes sparkled merrily. Isobel felt herself starting to redden and turned towards Jols, embarrassed by her reaction to the man.

He was one of the Sarmatian Knights! It was Gawain, who had bedded his fair share of maidens and had no qualms about taking the wenches from the tavern in his room! He had no idea of what 'safe sex' was and probably didn't worried too much about leaving bastards around! Not to mention all the nice venereal disease he could be incubating from one of the whores of the Fort (she didn't put over him to occasionally pay for the entertainment).

Images from that one google search she had once upon a time done (to get an idea of what venereal diseases looked like) popped in her mind. The embarrassment immediately died down (along with any interest for the man), substituted by a wave of nausea. She almost physically felt the redness leave her cheeks. She concentrated on her breathing and tried not to puke out her lunch. Bad idea thinking about that, bad _bad_ idea.

"Are you feeling well? You look ill." The knight questioned, still in that low voice, a slight worry seeping in his slurred voice. Isobel mentally yanked a couple of saints down from heaven in her mind. Couldn't that man just go back to his sleep? It wasn't as if she could foster _It _on him and she didn't wanted his attention otherwise (though it _was_ sweet that he was inquiring after he health even when he was injured so much that he had to be kept drugged and confined to bed, a traitorous part of her brain noted).

Jols was still trafficking with his things to make the paste he had mentioned, she noted, so there was no possible help coming from his part. Taking a deep breath, she turned again towards the knight and tried to smile, though she wasn't sure about the result.

"I am well, do not worry." She tried to reassure him, her voice as low in volume as his had been. She also moved nearer to the bed, stopping when she felt the wooden frame against the side of her leg, and allowed her eyes to roam on the bandaged parts of his body for a moment.

"You should worry about yourself, Sir Knight. Those wounds must have been terrible, to keep you here. You have to rest." She kept her voice low and calm, hoping that he would heed her suggestion and get back to sleep. She kept an eye on Jols too, waiting for any sign from him that could mean he was done and she could approach him.

If she was lucky, the poppy-seed concoction had made him woozy enough to ensure that he wouldn't remember her clearly, in the long run. She was a plain woman, it sure wouldn't be too much of a stretch, wouldn't it?

"Rest?" Gawain scoffed, clearly not agreeing with her. Isobel barely restrained herself from physically rolling her eyes at him. He was about to elaborate on his scoffing (probably something about needing ale and a woman's touch, she thought with quite a bit of cynicism) when Jols saved the situation by signaling her to go to him.

"I'm sorry, Sir, I have to go." She excused herself immediately, offering the injured Sarmatian an half-smile and a nod of her head in salutation. Thank God for Jols. The man was rapidly collecting positive points in her mental file, what with the intelligence and the helpfulness.

-§-break-§-

No healthy knight had showed up while Isobel was in the infirmary and she wasn't really keen on remaining there. After thanking Jols for the paste and the bandages (and promising she was going to come back to get the cuts checked the next day) she cut her losses for the day and left the infirmary before Gawain could try to engage her in a new conversation.

It was night, by then, and the barracks had clearly already settled for the night. The bustle of the day activities had died down and the other inhabitants of the barracks had either retired in their rooms, took their posts for guard duty or had headed to the tavern.

The corridors were empty, Isobel's own steps creating little noise on the floor as she moved along them, mind drifting from one topic to another distractedly. They were going towards the end of September and the temperature had already started dropping, she realized as she shivered.

It was probably high time for her to go pay one of the girls Ethelind had mentioned to her for clothes better suited for the coming winter. At least two warmer dresses, a cloak and a pair of boots, she reasoned. Bandages to substitute for her bra, which was starting to fray.

She spent most of her time working inside of the barracks. Her daily itinerary was on the lines of room-corridor-kitchen-corridor-laundry room-corridor-kitchen-corridor and so on and so forth until she went back to her room.

She rarely ventured outside of the barracks and into the rest of the Fort proper, so maybe she could skip on gloves and a scarf until she had gotten another month of wages to count on.

She had thought about doing them herself, buying the cloth and then stitching it up. It had been a good idea, but she had focused so much of her time on making herself useful (and exhausting herself to the point where she couldn't dream) that she had lost herself and forgotten to get a head start on that job. She now had no choice, if she wanted to cover herself up instead of freezing, but to buy the clothes, at least for the moment.

It was with that thought in mind that Isobel turned a corner and found herself unexpectedly face-to-face with one of the eel-like Sarmatian Knights she had unsuccessfully tried to track down all day.

Taken completely by surprise by the sudden, to her, presence of the man, she lost her footing. She would have probably ended up on the floor if not for the hands that fastened on her arms, keeping her upright and bringing her against the body of the man himself.

A little corner of her mind screamed but no sound made its way out of Isobel's mouth as she found herself looking in Lancelot's eyes, body flush against his own.

-§-break-§-

AN: Here we are again, this time featuring Gawain a little (yay for finally getting one of the knights around!)

Also, you could may or may not get a description of Isobel's beside "plain looking" and "tall" in the next chapter but I won't sign down on it. I have a plot and a timeline but sometimes muses can be fickle and I may end writing out things in a different way from what I've envisioned right now.

**Baroque**: Thanks for the review, I really appreciated it! I'm happy that you were entertained!

Historical notes (feel free to pass them, I'm just elaborating and expanding on the why's and how's of some of the things I mentioned in the chapter)

Gloves were around since the Greeks and scarves (though originally used only to clean oneself) started to circle in the Roman times. Since scarves became something between a fashion statement and a way to protect oneself from the cold in the later Roman times I had no problem with making Isobel considering them in her "needed clothes" tally considering both the timeline and the climate.

Also, you could either buy the cloth and make your clothes or pay someone to make them for you (usually someone with more time and who wouldn't mind the money or someone who did it for a living). No fine job for modern standards, clearly, but Isobel cares more about being covered adequately than she does for having pretty dresses. Having two works (as a helper in both the kitchen and the laundry room), she has the money to buy for herself but not the time to make anything, unless she sacrifices her sleep (which could be counter-productive since she needs to be awake to work).

The "girls Ethelind mentioned" are seamstresses, girls who have made a living out of their ability for sewing (from somewhere the clothes for the men had to come and not all of them had a member of the family there to make them some). They will feature in future chapters, as will Ethelind herself (she's quite insistent in being a constant part of Isobel's life).

Bra's came into existence towards the end of the 1800. They came to substitute corset, which had been around since the time of the Medici at least (middle part of 1500) but possibly even before. They were not part of the medieval style of dress, though, from what I've been able to uncover. Also, corsets were made with horn or metal or whalebone, making them really costly and difficult to find in a place like Hadrian's wall.

Medieval times could be more associated with the garment known as a "girdle" which was tied around the waist and, from what I could gather, did not offer all that support to the most prominent part of the female body. Either those or "bodices", which are what inspired the idea of the corset but came later than the time Isobel's in. The best one could do in her time was to tie a belt or something under the breasts to either emphasize them or try to "keep them in check".

This is why Isobel's going with 'bandages' as an alternative to a bra. In her mind, that's the best she can do until she can get her hands on some clothes and experiment with it and maybe some hooks (she can have the local smith do her a couple of little hooks but she still is going to have to work out how to fix them to the cloth in a permanent way).

It also merits note that in falconry (medieval one at least, I'm not sure in the modern one) the birds of prey used were of various categories but almost always female, since females tends to be more vicious. They were trained mostly by their owners since that helped the birth of a bond between the bird and the owner, so that when the bird was released it would always return, sooner or later. Which is why, along with the always green reason "for the lulz", I decided to give Tristan's falcon the name Iseult.

I'm not really an Arthurian buff but I do have a couple of books on the subject and my internet give me access to Wikipedia so the books and the wiki are where I got the 'legends about the knights' from (I'll never find not funny the idea of Bors being chaste and pure).

Avicenna, or Ibn-Sina, was a famous Arabic doctor who greatly influenced the Arabic idea of medicine. He lived in a different time from that of Arthur and his men but Arabic medicine was already developing by their time period and it was (and would be for centuries) far more advanced and similar, in certain aspects, to the modern one than the occidental one. That said, appendicitis was lethal even in Ibn-Sina's time period and people rarely survived it. Isobel's would have almost certainly died had her appendix ruptured while she was in Arthur Castus's Briton (which, under certain aspects, indeed sucked _ass_ like she's fond to say).

If you've read until now and there's anything else that leaves you doubting or curious (or if you disagree with the informations I've gathered on those subjects) please let me know and I will gladly explain or edit where needed :)

Also, thank you for reading!


	4. Where Lancelot enters the story

After the long meeting with Arthur he had been into had ended, Lancelot had headed towards the infirmary.

Having just spent a few good hours talking about the most recent reports of Saxon's attacks on the coast, all he wanted was to see how his brother in arms were faring and, after that, head to the tavern to get himself a mug of ale and a willing woman to warm his bed.

Looking in the eyes of the woman he had bumped into, he revised his priorities for the night and swiftly changed his plans, substituting them with new ones involving the maid he had bumped into (and maybe some ale too).

She was tall enough that she had to look down a little to meet his eyes, but Lancelot didn't minded. Once he got her on a bed, height wouldn't matter anymore and, anyway, tall women always had long legs, which wasn't a negative, at all, from his point of view.

Her face wasn't really remarkable, nothing one could really brag about when recounting his conquests, but she had nice clear green eyes and a pleasing body, filled in the right places from what he could feel of her where she was pressed against him.

"Careful." He smiled, his voice gentle, taking half a step back and breaking, if only slightly, the contact between them. His hands were still on her arms, keeping her steady, and he took the occasion to rub little circles with his thumbs, in a gentle and soothing motion.

She had the look of a frightened rabbit on her and that didn't sat well with him. While it could be a justified reaction, since she had clearly not heard him coming (and probably wasn't expecting anyone to be there), he was no threat to the woman, far from it. Hence the soothing gesture and the gentleness in speaking to her, as if calming down a skittish animal.

"Are you alright?" He inquired, looking her up and down as he spoke the words. He had meant to refer only to the almost-collision but, looking at her, he noticed the bandages on her hands and forearms. She was clearly hurt, maybe from some work-related accident? It didn't really matter, she didn't seemed to be in pain.

When he had grasped her arms, to keep her from falling, he had took hold of the higher part of her arms. It was now clear that his instinctive move had also been lucky, since she had clearly been injured in some way. Still, he didn't let his gaze linger on the cloth, choosing instead to look up and back into her eyes (after a rapid glance at her breasts, that confirmed the fact that she was well endowed the area).

For a few moments she looked at loss for words, her surprise and unease clearly painted on her face (probably at being so near to one of the ferocious Sarmatians, Lancelot's mind supplied cynically). It didn't last, though, and she nodded, making a quite obvious effort in recomposing herself.

"I am, thanks to you." She offered a weak smile and tried to held up her right hand. He let her go, allowing her free range of movement, and watched her face as she tucked an errand strand of hair behind her ear. The hair had been braided but it must have been done hours before, looking at how loose the braid itself was looking.

"My pleasure..." Lancelot kept his smile and it only deepened when he noticed that her cheeks were coloring up. He also left the phrase open, clearly waiting for her to speak her name. She looked very vaguely familiar but he had no clear recollection of her, neither in his bed nor around the Fort.

"Isobel." She answered, a finger tugging slightly at the end of the lock of hair she had just re-adjusted. There was silence for a moment, before she continued. "Actually, it's Isabella Antonia but everyone calls me Isobel. I'm not … my family was not important." A beat. "I am just the daughter of two servants. I mean … no-one important." It came out in a rush, gaining momentum until she stopped completely, biting her lower lip.

Lancelot had to bit down a laugh. The woman might have been Roman but she was _cute_, with her nerves (probably at having identified herself as a Roman to one of the Sarmatians, he reasoned) and the way she tried and failed to held her tongue in check. She continued to remind him of a rabbit, a little frightened creature who just needed the right hand to calm down and relax. He had no doubt that the hand in question could be his, in this particular occasion.

Lancelot had no love lost for Romans (like all of his compatriots) but the ones he really disliked, looked down on, were the powerful ones. The ones with big houses and carriages, the filthy rich ones, with no idea of how the world worked or any respect for anyone besides themselves. They may not make his blood boil, as happened with Galahad, but he couldn't stand them either.

This woman, here? She was no rich Roman noblewoman full of herself. A daughter of servants, indeed. He felt his own smile broaden as he turned his charm on at full power. The night had just become much more interesting than what he had originally thought it would be.

-§-break-§-

Since Isobel had woken up under charred debris up until this point, she had found herself in quite a few entanglements, on a social level.

There had been the razed village where no one had been alive except for her. The caravan populated by what she had, for a while, suspected to be excessively fanatical fans of historical revivals whom only spoke Latin or something that sounded only vaguely familiar to her ears.

The interrogation in front of Arthur. The first days in the Fort when she had to get to know her coworkers and avoid looking like an idiot or a fool. There had also been the experience of becoming Ethelind's friend, which hadn't been devoid of embarrassing moments and tight spots (and was surely going to feature many others yet to come).

Quite the variety of situations one would think. And yet, nothing and no one she had encountered so far had prepared her for the experience that was being in Lancelot's company, while being object of his undivided attention.

After the initial bout of nervousness she had felt at suddenly being in the presence of the man (and oh, how she hated the way nerves got the best of her and turned her into a barely coherent idiot), Isobel had quickly found herself in dire need of reminding herself of that disgusting google search. It left her feeling faintly ill (and it was also thinking about the _then_) but it was also necessary to avoid falling hook, line and sinker for the knight's charm in the _now_.

Lancelot had a truckload of charisma, he knew it and he shamelessly exploited it which led to a ton of confidence that well complimented his handsome face and toned body. Damn if the man wasn't a danger to womankind all over. A walking and talking danger, with a quite deserved ego at that. Damn him to hell.

Which was part of the why and how she had ended up walking side by side with him in the corridors of the barracks, kept warm by the cloak. She _had_ tried to refuse but he had paid no heed her protestation, going as far as dumping the cloak on her shoulders.

Isobel had also tried to keep the conversation brief, once she had regained her wits, explaining about _It_ and that she was scared of the consequences that could occur if she botched up her recovery. Trying to suggest that _It_ would have been better off, and calmer, in the presence of a familiar person, a friend of his owner?

Lancelot had deflected taking responsibility for the little hellion, claiming that the animal couldn't stand him in the slightest, but had insisted to accompany her back to her room, to "at least check on Iseult's health" (his words).

Which was such a load of bullshit that Isobel had to physically refrain from rolling her eyes at him (it may have had something to do with the knights? She had already had the impulse with Gawain, after all).

It was quite obvious that he just wanted more time with her to try and get under her skirt but it wasn't as if she had been left with much choice at that point (and she still harbored a tiny bit of hope that she could foster off the little hellion to him).

Right now, she was finishing her as-brief-as-possible explanation of what had happened to bring her to the wall, which had been one the first questions Lancelot had asked her once they had started walking.

"... so now I help with the cooking and the stitching here in the barracks, thanks to the Commander's good will and generosity." She concluded, keeping her fingers on the folds of the cloak.

She had thought about her parents, and friends, when she had talked about the village and her imaginary husband (Caius she had named him, because it had been such a common Roman name that it was bound to be believable) to help making her lie more convincing. Lancelot had fallen for it, apparently, not that he had reason not to.

"And yet, I don't remember seeing you around." Lancelot mused, looking at her with an appraising gaze. He had already looked at her that way, in the course of their brief conversation. Once when he had inquired about her well-being in the beginning, and a second time when she had talked about waking up under the debris of the village and stumbling upon the caravan. This being the third time around, Isobel found it less intimidating and just merely uncomfortable to be the subject of such a look.

"I am kept busy by my work and when night comes I'm so tired that I just go to my room to sleep." She explained, using the truth to cover up the omissions in her phrase.

Omissions like the fact that she had waited for the knights to be on a mission outside of the Fort to give in to Ethelind's desire to give her a tour of the Fort. Or the fact that she _had_ explored the barracks too, to get her bearings once the Sarmatians hadn't been around. It wasn't as if she could explain him why, after all.

Lancelot nodded and then smiled, that boyish smile of his that made her feel a little weak in the knees. Stupid charming knight (2 – the revenge, her brain suggested snarkily).

"I am lucky then, that I found you awake and around this night." He told her, stopping his steps when she stopped her own, right outside of her room.

"Here we are." She muttered, with a slightly strained smile, as she put a hand on the door. She was going to leave it open and hope that would suffice as a message to him. As soon as she opened it, though, an enraged screech greeted them, making Lancelot wince and mutter something she didn't managed to catch.

"I have yet to see that falcon in a nice mood." She offered, sighing. Lancelot muttered something she didn't managed to catch, again, but it sounded like an agreement as they entered the space.

-§-break-§-

The room was tiny. Just a bed, against one wall, and a little table with a chair, against the other and near the fireplace, where the fire was dying. It was also quite bare, without furs or trinkets or any kind of embellishment at all.

Lancelot wasn't surprised, since Isobel had lost all of her things, and yet he couldn't help his dislike of the little space. It barely looked lived in, reflecting nothing of the person whom inhabited it.

There was a sewing kit on the table, along with a comb. A green dress, draped on the back of the chair, of cloth far better for the summer than for the current weather. If she had anything else, he couldn't see it in the half-obscurity of the room. Not at first glance, at least.

There was nothing, in the room, that told him anything about her. It was a far cry from his own room or many of the rooms he had found himself in at one point or another, here at the Fort.

Iseult screeched again and he turned to his left, gaze lowering until he saw some sort of nest, made out of pieces of cloth of various sizes and measures. The falcon was in it, trapped in white cloth and openly displeased with his presence.

Lancelot laugh didn't help any but he couldn't keep it in, not when he saw that the bird had managed to put herself upright and was now hopping around, clearly trying to intimidate him. It was a ridiculous sight and there was no way he could have kept his laugh contained.

"Hush, be quiet you! There are people sleeping and I won't have a repeat of the other night!" Isobel scolded, under her breath, from her place in front of the fireplace. She had put in another piece of wood and was stoking the fire, lighting up the room a little.

Iseult screeched again and then tried to hop towards Lancelot, who was still laughing at the falcon's predicament, vaguely curious about what had happened the prior night. It was just an afterthought, though, and one quickly forgotten as he decided that he _had_ to tell Galahad about it, maybe even bring him to see.

It would at least cheer up the kid a little, something that was quite needed since the kid's usual wrangler had landed himself in Jols's hands.

Without Gawain around, Galahad's mood had taken a turn for the worse.

Lancelot would have believed it possible, had he not witnessed it in person. They had been back two days now and Gawain had been unconscious for both of them, from what they knew.

Galahad had gone to the Healing Rooms right after dinner but Lancelot would have bet good money on finding the kid at the tavern, at this moment, drinking himself under the table or in the bed of one of the whores of the Fort.

It hadn't been the kid's first battle nor the first time some of them had gotten this badly injured but Galahad had yet to see Gawain in such a state and now they were had to deal with the consequences, waiting for the older knight to get back on his feet.

He discarded that train of thought and moved out of the reach of Iseult, who had managed to make a few progresses while he was distracted. He wasn't really keen on getting within the range of Tristan's falcon beak, he had seen the damage the beast could do, so he wasn't really displeased when Isobel took the situation in hand.

"Stop it! You're gonna injure yourself worse and then you won't fly anymore and what will I tell Tristan?" The woman scolded, as she carefully made her way towards the animal. Lancelot had a suspicion about her bandages and he really hoped he was wrong about it.

Despite his gruff and silent manners, Tristan was a man of honor and one who didn't liked for women to get needlessly hurt, especially on his behalf (there had been an accident during their training with a young girl getting in the way of her protective father that no one spoke of anymore, at least if they knew what was good for them).

The thought that his own falcon had hurt someone, that Iseult had hurt a woman because Tristan himself had been in no shape to take care of his own prized falcon's wound wasn't going to sit easy with the man. Especially if the woman in question had been taking care of Iseult's health.

He kept an eye on the bird, ready to intervene if it tried to attack the woman as it had tried him. Unsurprisingly, Iseult put up a struggle against being put back in the makeshift nest but, surprisingly, she didn't do much except wriggling and screeching, loudly. If the falcon had been the one to injure Isobel than it had been a thing of the past, an accident that apparently wasn't going to repeat itself.

"Oh I told you to hush! I'm going to have a scar, you know? You cut me up so badly that Jols said one of the cuts will leave me with one." Isobel muttered and ah, here it was. Lancelot's hunch had been confirmed. It was even worse than what he had originally envisioned, what with Isobel carrying a permanent reminder of her determination to help.

A scar wasn't all that unexpected, to be honest, given the ability of the falcon to inflict harm and her general aversion for being touched by anyone except Tristan. At the same time, Tristan wasn't going to like it, at all, probably even feel somewhat responsible for it, knowing the man. Which meant that the scout's attention was going to be focused on Isobel, at least for a while, once he got word of what had happened.

It wasn't a bad thing, on its own, but it didn't bode well for Lancelot's own plans. She had caught his interest and he wanted her. Only for a few nights, maybe, but he still wanted her and having Tristan hovering nearby because he felt indebted to her (for caring for his falcon and for getting injured while caring for it) wasn't going to make it fun or easy.

Resolving to act before Tristan could become aware of the situation, Lancelot gently closed the door. He propped his shoulder against it, watching Isobel put down Iseult, observing the way she was wary of the screeching animal even while she tried to soothe the beast's temper.

It was an amusing sight. Adding to that, the fact that the woman was crouching also allowed him to look at her ass and study the way the dress hugged her frame. He supposed it was a borrowed dress, because it fit her in a loose way that downplayed her body's strengths.

He was quite sure that she was going to be a far more interesting sight once she was naked, something that he had found to be true for a lot of women.

-§-break-§-

**Author Note**

Hi again! Lancelot's in the story, folks! *grins*

As you can see he's thinking of bedding Isobel. He has nothing but sexual interest for her (as of this chapter) which is to be expected since we know he's a passionate man and she's not ugly.

I do not completely agree with the concept of the knights having an endless series of one night stands, if only because there aren't enough women in the Fort to supply them with always new lovers. I think they would probably be more on the lines of taking a woman who had struck their fancy in their bed until they tired of her or either go to pay for a whore's services.

Most of the girls at the Fort either had a family or wanted to build one at some point in their lives (plus they had parents and relatives that looked out for them). This restricted the knight's interactions with them to women either willing to make a coin from bedding them or to enter their beds knowing they wouldn't end up marrying the knight (though there could be the occasional girl who said she understood and instead hoped to change the knight's mind).

Being, for what Lancelot knows, a daughter of two servants Isobel is just another person in the service of the Romans which puts him in a better mood and disposition towards her. Also, being a widow, Isobel's is no virgin and has already known what it's like to be married.

She would be less liable to encounter a big reproach from the community were she to bed a knight, not being of high lineage. There still could be some who looked down on her, since she's a Roman while he's a Sarmatian (and she should be trying to find herself a nice man to marry again) but it wouldn't be a scandal nor something out there and she would know to keep it discreet.

It also makes her a better target for Lancelot's attentions than other maids that he would have to seduce and work on or that could have families who could make them pay for deciding to bed a foreigner who won't stay here past what he's bound to.

So sex and convenience is all that there is to his interest in her, for the moment. She's a nice looking woman, more or less his age, who might be willing to enter his bed without any fuss being made about it. What more could he ask for XD?

**Baroque**: I'm happy I managed to make you laugh! And cats sometimes need a minor scare or two to lighten up their lives ;) Thank you very much for the review!

**Spooks94**: Thank you for your review! Yes, it will be quite a long road to getting to know the knights since that's how things usually go with people and I'm striving for a down-to-earth setting in this story.

I stupidly neglected to mention it (and I'll expand on it once I'm done typing this reply to you) but we currently are ten years before the movie (so going from 20 to 26 in ages for the knights [You'll find more details about my reasoning for it after this reply]).

I needed time to develop both the OCs and the way they interact with the knights, before we could get to the proper 'movie' part. Being able to joke with a person or to address it as an old buddy should take time (so that you _are_ old buddies and that you have had the time to get to know that person, so that you know what to joke about and how).

As you can see I'm still keeping with my line of "not becoming instant!bosom buddies" (I really liked this definition, hee :D). I wasn't able to think of her coming in contact with them and suddenly become BFF-for-life with them (from either side of the equation). Having her caring for Tristan's falcon gives her an in with him and being the object of Lancelot's attentions sounds far more believable as an interaction between the two of them to me than instant-friendship (also, I think that a man like Lancelot had been portrayed to be would think of most women in a sexual way when he meets them, what with him being quite the player).

Isobel being 25 was a conscious choice on my part, for a number or reasons. A big part of it is because I find the 'young teenager with weathered war veteran' situation to be slightly creepy too, no matter the standards of the time. It's just … *shudders*

Also, a 25 years old can be depicted as a more mature person without going OOC to her age (an 18 years old girl nowadays most often than not hasn't the same maturity level of an 18 years old of that time, for obvious reasons). Off course she's not a wary war vet but she's not a naïve young girl either. For me, that works better in helping her deal with both what's happening to her and the people she's surrounded by (knights included).

Still she's also stressed and nervous, because of both her situation (alone, with no one to turn to, in a time that's not hers and basically no support system except for a friend she can't tell the truth to) and, more generally, the psychological repercussions of what the situation entailed for her. A woman 25 years old may have already experienced the stress of being an adult, living alone and providing for herself so that enables her to deal with it better than an 18 years old may have done (at least, in my opinion).

I'll cut it here, since I think I've blabbed enough and I still have to expand on the 'ten years before the movie' concept (which will be a long explanation) and make my Historical Note about names. Thank you again for your review!

Now, just to clear up a few things (age and time related).

I should have said it in the beginning (I think I'm going to go back and modify chapter 1 so that the date will be the first thing the readers do read) but this fic takes place 10 years before what happens in the movie. It will come to encompass the movie itself (with a few changes, which I think should be obvious since this is a fic) and part of what happens afterward. It just will not happen immediately.

This means that we're in for the long run though I will strive not to drag things unnecessarily. In a story, months can pass in just a few phrases, when there is nothing worth of note to report, and there's always the option of condensing facts and development we don't need to see in detail in a few paragraphs.

Because of this choice there will be knights that are not in the movie, since once there were more of them (as Arthur himself tells the Bishop). I will use names from the Arthurian Legends for them and maybe put in them some traits of the ones we heard about but, much as the movie itself has done, it will be a loosely inspired portrayal of them (like Dagonet was supposed to be a jester and a big talker, while in the movie he has scarcely a couple of lines, if that). I do suggest you don't get too attached to them, though, since they will have to go, before we get to the 'movie-events' part of the fic.

Looking at the movie, I would say that the boys departed Sarmatia when they were from the age of 12 to the age of 18, I'll hazard (Galahad is conspicuously younger than, let's say, Bors but they are treated as if they've all been serving the same time, which is stupid but I'll go with it anyway). Let's say a year of time, more or less, to get them to Britain and they are from 13 to 19, more or less. Which, given 17 years of service under Rome, puts them in the 30 to 36 range by the time of the movie.

In this fic, at the moment, they go from 20 (Galahad, as the youngest) to 26 (Bors, as the oldest). Since Bors has eleven children by the time of the movie, that means he must already have at least a couple. That is, unless Vanora pops out one for year, in which case he should have only one, but I'm going with him being already a father of more than one kid. Which is why Isobel's finding the 'chaste Bors' part of the legend to be utter bullshit.

In the movie (I have the 'director cut' edition) Galahad is implied as being younger (or less battle-weathered) than Gawain by Gawain himself. Gawain's "been in his life longer than any other" at least according to what he says when they are escorting the Bishop to the wall (or at least, that's what I've heard). I've listened to that scene many times but, if anyone disagrees with me or has heard differently, please let me know. Since Bors, Dagonet and Tristan are all quite clearly older than Gawain I've always boggled at the stupidity of that particular line.

It also makes no sense in terms of the discharge. If Gawain's older, he should have already received his discharge and been let go and Galahad shouldn't get discharged with the rest of them. Each of the knights should have either been discharged because his term was finished (which meant he had been there for his 17 years) or been reassigned to another auxiliary unit until the time came for his discharge (especially since the Romans needed any single man they could put their hands on to boost the legions they still commanded in Italy).

I decided to ignore Gawain's phrase and to make Galahad as younger in age and, as such, having been kept in training for longer so that he has seen less battlefields than the others. Which is why in my story Lancelot remarks on the fact that Galahad's more 'green' than them.

Historical note

In Ancient Rome, Roman male citizens had two or three names:

_Praenomen_ – The first name, chosen by the paterfamilias (the father or the oldest and more important male relative) which was always in Latin.

_Nomen_ – The second name, or surname in modern times. This 'name' was indicative of the gens (family, in the most large sense) of the person.

_Cognomen_ – More of a nickname, indicative of the person. It was usually ironic or mocking, chosen based on some trait, either physical or of character, that was distinctive of that person. For example, there was a well-known (for his times) orator who was known as Tacitus. That was his cognomen and it meant "silent". Since this was reserved for well-known people, it was more of a rarity.

At the same time, female Roman citizens usually didn't really had their own names.

They usually were known by a feminine form of the family nomen with an added "major" or "minor" or "elder" or "younger" to distinguish them (Mark Antony's daughters were known as Antonia Major and Antonia minor, to make an example). In case a family had more than two daughter, some parents decided to bestow on them additional names, to distinguish them from one another when talking about them to others. Once married they would be addressed by that moniker and the nomen of their husband.

So, since Isobel presented herself as Isabella Antonia, that implies that she had at least two older sisters (hence the name Isabella, bastardized in a more Briton Isobel for everyday use) and that her husband had been Caius Antonius (Caius of the family of the Antonii), making her Isabella "Isobel" Antonia or Isabella of the Antonius Gens or Family (a fairly common family name).

I know this may seem just like a curiosity or unnecessary at the moment but it should later come in play in the story.

Thank you for reading and I kind of apologize for this monstrous author note, in case you found it boring!


	5. Where we get a little more backstory

Lancelot waited until Isobel had finished calming down Tristan's falcon to make his move. He gave her the time to get up and then took the two steps he needed to close the distance between them, putting himself behind her.

Shooting an amused look at the trapped volatile (still funny), he smiled and reached to touch her. He had decided a gentle touch would be the best thing, just enough to make her turn and look at him. This way he could speak to her and be almost against her at the same time.

Lancelot was nothing if conscious of the effect proximity had on a woman, especially proximity with him. It was going to make the whole seducing bit much easier, he thought as his hands lowered, a few instants away from touching her shoulders.

-§-break-§-

Isobel had a little problem with being approached from behind, especially if the person managed to catch her by surprise. That was how she put it and, most assuredly, it was also a case of downplaying the whole issue.

A long time ago, when she had been a teenager, Isobel had been repeatedly attacked. For a few weeks, before she screwed up her courage and talked about it with her parents, Isobel had found herself victim of attacks by a couple of school bullies.

She had refused to bow to their whims and, in retaliation, they had made her life hell. Almost every day, after school, she had found herself subjected to both reprisals and attempts to cow her into submission.

It had been an harrowing experience that had left her with quite a lot of rage, a burning need to learn how to protect herself and a knee-jerk reaction to having someone standing too close behind her.

It was that accident that had spurred her to take up martial arts, muay thai to be completely honest. Tough she had always declined her teacher's offerings of getting in a real ring, Isobel had attended to two lessons a week from the time she was seventeen up to when she had found herself in Arthur Castus's Briton (another reason the aforementioned place sucked _ass_, what with the absence of widespread education of any kind).

Yes, she didn't have a gym here to go to (nor did she have the occasion to practice since she had found herself in the _now_) but that didn't mean that her muscles had wasted away or that those eight years of training had magically disappeared.

Working in a kitchen wasn't as fancy as it had looked in the shows of the _then_.

The water had to be fetched from a well, long trips coming and going with two quite heavy buckets (that obviously weighed even more once full). There were supplies for the kitchens that had to be sorted and gathered from the carts that traveled to the Fort.

Endless hours were spent working the churn to convert milk into butter, which was exhausting and taxing on the arms if one didn't had the muscles to make it work. There were little mountains of objects that had to be cleaned (with, guess what, more water from the well and muscle work) and piled and put away or took out depending on what you needed to do with them.

Stitching was better, since it didn't really involve anything but working with her fingers, but Isobel had occasionally been involved in the trips to the near lake to clean the clothes, hard work too. It was more a matter of literally beating the stains out of the cloth than not really cleaning (soap wasn't wasted on silly things like clothing, after all).

Thankfully, Ethelind had offered to wash her things, since Isobel had often been busy in the kitchen when the women tasked with the laundry went to clean it. She would have found the time to do it personally, though, once she managed to get her hands on clothes better suited to the coming cold.

Anyway, even though Isobel hadn't seen the interior of a gym in months her muscles had still had a thorough work-out, a daily one at that. They had kept firm and strong by days upon days of hard work, maybe even became more defined although Isobel hadn't really paid it all that much attention (she had a million other things going in her mind).

Her skills may have been a little rusty, what with no practice for the last few months, but Isobel had spent two days a week for the last eight years (holidays not included) practicing movements and reactions, ingraining them in her muscle memory and her mind to the point where they had become automatic reflexes.

-§-break-§-

Taken as she had been with the satisfaction of having managed to calm _It_ down, while being in the privacy of her own room, Isobel had lowered her guard and (stupidly, she would later decide) allowed herself to be distracted from her surroundings.

Which was why, suddenly finding herself almost boxed in the corner the nest was in, she didn't think about where she was, who she was with or what was going to happen after. When she felt breath on her neck plus a solid presence at her back and hands ghosting just over her shoulders she _reacted_.

Her elbow connected with the solar plexus of the person behind her, _hard_. Turning on her right foot she brought her left knee up, a sharp, aggressive movement. The man had folded up, completely taken by surprise at suddenly finding himself both in pain and without any breath left. It was an instinctive and natural reaction, that sadly put his face right in the path of Isobel's knee (which was, after all, the purpose behind elbowing him right before kneeing him).

The knight's head shot back and he fell down on his butt, hand instinctively moving to the hilt of his sword in the face of what his brain had registered as an unmotivated attack. _It_ screeched, louder than Isobel had ever heard her, but she didn't pay attention to the actions of the bird. She scrambled away from both the knight and the animal, her back connecting with the edge of the little table.

She didn't stop, scrambling along the edge and then away from it. Closing the distance between her and the wall opposite to the door, weight balanced on her calves as she tried to get her bearings back and to calm the rush of surprise-panic-adrenaline that had kicked in.

"Oh God, oh god, oh god." She whispered, gulping down big lungfuls of air as she tried to subside the panic. Even though _It_ was still screeching, clearly upset, Isobel's eyes never left Lancelot's own as he slowly got up from the pavement, one hand on his jaw and the other on the hilt of his sword.

He looked bewildered, completely astonished. Isobel knew she had to explain it somehow, find a way to avoid the incoming inquisition on his part, to avoid being brought in front of Arthur to explain why she had attacked one of his knights for no apparent reason.

Lancelot opened his mouth, clearly on the verge of speaking and Isobel launched into it, panicked and scared out of her mind.

"I'm sorry!" She burst out. Iseult hadn't calmed at all but she had no time to care for the animal's needs or sounds, not now. She had far more pressing matters to deal with, so she immediately pressed on, to avoid being interrupted by the knight.

"When I was young, I was attacked by bandits. It was … it happened in the woods and it was... they came from behind, grabbed me. There was a traveler nearby that... he heard the commotion and he saved me." She continued, eyes on Lancelot's sword, pressing her back against the warmed-up wall.

She _hated_ the way she sounded, the uncertainty and the stuttering, and yet she couldn't help it, not with her mind constantly replaying images of medieval methods of torture and tidbits of information about how suspected traitors had been dealt with in the _now_. If she didn't explain, if she didn't put all of her story out, immediately, who knew what could happen?

"My parents were grateful, gave him a room in our house to stay in, for as long as he wanted, and he decided to teach me how to defend myself. You know, in exchange for stitching lessons..." Her voice was still rushed but less frantic and she found herself gulping down mouthfuls of air in the pauses. A tiny bit of her control was starting to come back and Isobel clung to it, before a rather gruesome image of an Iron Maiden popped up, just as she was arriving to the part of her explanation that had less basis in the reality.

"I was attacked in the woods, taken by surprise from behind and … and a few months ago there was the attack on my village ... by the Saxons and I … you can't … if someone takes me by surprise from behind I just ..." She choked a little and her voice broke. Isobel felt sick in her gut with worry. Her hands pressed against the stones as she unsuccessfully tried to rip her eyes from the hand he still had on the sword's handle.

"I'm _so_ sorry." She added, trying to glean some clue from Lancelot's posture, any indication at all of what was going to come. In her mind, Isobel remembered the voice of her teacher, telling her about the importance of keeping calm, stay in control of the situation. She hadn't been in control of anything for what seemed to her like a whole life. She struggled with her instincts and firmly ordered herself to wait, instead of doing something as stupid as trying to bolt away.

-§-break-§-

Isobel had prepared her story a long time before, when she had first thought of how to justify such a knowledge. She had doubted she would have needed it but she had been in the caravan at the time, with time on her hands, and so she had prepared it and thank God for that.

Travelers weren't unheard of in these times, either for work or because it was in their interest to travel as much. She could even claim that her teacher had come from the east, since the Sarmatians themselves were from what would one day become known as the middle-east.

Martial arts in general, under different styles and different names, had existed for at least thousands of years (counting in times of _then_) which meant that she could have very well met someone who knew such a form of physical combat.

The attack in the woods part wasn't untrue (though the assault had taken place in a park rather than a forest) and while her parents hadn't physically given her teacher a place to live in they had certainly paid him money (until she had been able to pay him herself) for the lessons he had imparted on her. Money that had surely helped with his rent, what with the rates the man had charged for his teachings.

Certainly any kind of parent would have been wary of a man coming out of nowhere and willing to teach a little girl something that required so much physical contact. Easterners weren't easily trusted but that was why Isobel had decided to put him in the tale claiming that he had saved her life, something that would leave her family indebted to him (which accounted for the lodging) and grateful for his intervention (which accounted for the trust granted to him).

Certainly authorities should have been informed by that could have simply meant that her family, being servants to a bigger and more noble Roman family, had warned their employers of the presence of the man and offered their word as a guarantee for his conduct.

With these circumstances she would not have been in the know of the hows and whys the Roman family her parents supposedly worked for had decided to accept the man presence, since she had supposedly just been a little girl at the time and a traumatized one at that.

That allowed her leeway with her story, granted her an automatic excuse for not knowing too much details about what had supposedly happened and with the village completely destroyed, there was no one to bring her to task with her lying.

In these times, though, such skills were passed down between family members or learned as part of a formal training. Which was why she had come up with the idea of trading knowledge, stitching (something girls learned since they were little) for lessons.

A man traveling alone, without any family to support him, would have had to rely on his own abilities. Whether it was hunting or fishing or cooking, he was by himself and clothes got rip or damaged in the long run.

While new clothes could be bought and old ones could be mended paying someone in any big settlement, learning how to stitch them on ones own was far less costly and time consuming than having someone else do it.

She had worked on her story, sat in the cart that had been bringing her to Hadrian's wall, until she had been satisfied by how it sounded and that her bases had all been covered.

Now she could do nothing but hope it would work, for she had no idea of what else to say to justify both her reaction and the knowledge she had in beating someone up.

-§-break-§-

Lancelot was actually at a loss for words, for once in his life.

He had no idea of what to say to the girl, who had clearly worked herself in a distressed state while he was still busy trying to make head and tail of what had happened. One moment he was behind her, ready to compliment her on her ability to handle Iseult, no mean feat, and the next he was breathless, his jaw hurt like hell and he was sitting on his ass on the pavement.

He had never before elicited such a reaction in a woman, nor had he ever seen a woman with such skill for brawling. In his personal experience women were usually more prone to slapping a man, hurling something at the poor sod or whack him with the nearest object.

Having been both trained and in his fair share of brawls, whenever someone's tongue managed to instigate one in some tavern, Lancelot had some experience with fighting people hand to hand instead of using his swords.

There was no doubt in his mind that Isobel had known exactly what she had been doing, at some level. Her reaction had been swift and merciless, aimed to put him down in the fastest and most efficient way possible. It brought Tristan to mind, with his precise and contained style of fighting.

While busy regaining his breath, he had listened to the woman's explanation. By the end of it, he had acquired a measure of respect for her that he hadn't previously possessed. Lancelot had seen many civilians crumble under the weight of similar experiences, unable to go on with their life as it once was or to rebuild themselves a new one from the ashes of the past.

Doubting her words never even came to his mind. Since he had been a kid, Lancelot had learned how to throw down, in case he lost his weapon, and have heard stories of warriors who had developed unarmed fighting styles for that same reason.

It wasn't inconceivable to think of one of those warriors becoming a wanderer, once he wasn't enlisted no more, and ending up here. Not everyone had a house or a family to come back to and Lancelot knew far too well how a man could desire to just follow his feet and depart from places drenched with bloodied memories.

She had been lucky, to be saved by such a man. Luckier still to have caught his attention enough to become his student, especially since she was just a woman and not a boy that could be molded in the image of his instructor. Able to learn, he had indeed discovered as much on his own skin, but still a woman.

Taking a deep breath, ignoring the twinge in his chest, he noted that she was looking towards him but not as his face. Following her gaze he saw that his hand was still on the handle of his sword and he released his fingers from it slowly, letting her see what he was doing.

He had no reason to hurt her and he had grabbed it instinctively, without stopping to think of what he was doing. It had been a reflex, ingrained in him much like her own, the ones that had kicked in when he had approached her from behind.

"I am not going to hurt you, you have my word." He told her and then watched as the tension bled away from her frame. She slumped down, back against the wall as she let herself slide down.

The rush of the one-sided battle had obviously faded and he saw the fight leave her eyes. Her hands came up to her hair, fingers nervously carding through the locks that had come free from her braid.

She was so scared of him that it wasn't funny. It actually was irksome for him, that fear of him coming from her.

He knew, obviously, that it was logical to fear reprisal for attacking any of the soldiers of the Fort. He was also quite aware of the multitude of rumors that newcomers were fed on the regards of him and his brothers, wild tales of Sarmatia's barbarians.

He also realized that much of her nervousness probably came from the fact that she was alone with him, in the corridors before hand and now in her own room, unarmed (though still obviously able to put up a fight if she felt the need to).

She also had undoubtedly seen enough of the world to know that she needed to fear the attentions of an armed men in such an occasion. Lancelot knew, from the story she had told him, that she was a woman without neither family nor relatives to fall on should anyone decide to try and take advantage or her.

Yet, she had trusted him enough to cave at his demands and show him to her room. She had trusted him enough to let him enter and had reacted negatively him only when she had felt herself approached in a way that set her defenses off on a level that made her react before she could think.

It made the new-found respect he had for her go up a little, distanced her from all the other maids he could have decided to pursue and piqued his interest all at the same time. This was a woman that seemed interesting to know, to talk with on top of sharing a bed together.

He didn't wanted her to be scared of him, didn't wanted her to feel like she had to put distance between them, shy and cower from his rage. Yes, he understood why she had done as much but that didn't meant he had to like it. It was something he had to change and change he would -

His thoughts suddenly skidded to an halt when he felt a sharp pain in his foot. With a muttered oath, Lancelot jumped sideways and looked down. There, on the pavement, stood the still trapped Iseult, who had managed to hop from her nest to him, clearly furious at being ignored.

"_It_, no!" Isobel protested, only to be rewarded by a series of furious screeches. Lancelot was now sure that, somehow, the woman sitting on the floor had managed to won an ally in the aggressive bird. Tristan was going to be an even worse pain in the ass, now, wonderful.

-§-break-§-

A falcon doesn't think like a human does.

A falcon could never be able of elaborate thoughts or any semblance of thinking that could be compared to that of a human mind. Still, if anyone could have been able to understand what went through Iseult's mind, this person could have translated the falcon's feelings and motivations as follows.

Iseult had been indeed pissed off when she had been taken away from The One She Had Chosen To Hunt With, given to a Stupid Female whom had taken her even more away from him. She felt no remorse for attacking the Stupid Female, for hurting her while the Stupid Female poured water over Iseult and then imprisoned her in a tight prison.

But the Stupid Female had continued. She had made a nest for Iseult to stay in and had taken meat to her. Iseult would have been insulted (she only ate what she hunted) hadn't she become aware that she couldn't fly in the meantime.

It wasn't the first time this had happened, she had been hurt before. In that occasion The One She Had Chosen To Hunt With had done the same for her. Made her a nest, took her meat.

This time, he had been hurt too and now the Stupid Female was doing what she had done. For Iseult that had been a sign that the Stupid Female was doing the bidding of The One She Had Chosen To Hunt With. Which was when the Stupid Female had become the Female.

The Female had left alone for long hours, coming from time to time to look at her but never staying. The One She Had Chosen To Hunt With had passed many hours with Iseult the last time she had been unable to fly. The Female wasn't doing the same, which meant that she wasn't doing all what she had to do.

When the Female had finally stopped in the room for a longer time, Iseult had pretended from her what The One She Had Chosen To Hunt With would have wanted her to give. The Female had took a little to understand but in the end she had sat down near Iseult and had remained with her.

It hadn't lasted for long and the next day they had been disturbed by another female first and a male later, the one that smelled like some parts of the woods. The Wood Smelling Male had prodded and touched her wing, much to Iseult's discontent. Her wing was much better and it would have become even better if she was just left alone with the company of the female.

Instead, she had been left alone again, except for the appearance of the Female with more meat for Iseult to consume. She had expected the Female to stay, now, but instead she had left again, much to Iseult's discontent.

Not only she had left but she had come back with one of the Hunters that The One She Had Chosen To Hunt With, rode with. She hadn't liked this intermission one bit, not when The One She Had Chosen To Hunt With had yet to come to her. If the Hunter wasn't here to take her to The One She Had Chosen To Hunt With than she didn't wanted him here _at all_.

Iseult had made her opinion clear and she had expected the Useless Hunter to leave. Instead, he had approached the Female and proceeded to scare her into attacking him.

Iseult had firmly agreed with the attack on the Useless Hunter. She had also been enraged by his conduct towards the Female that had been entrusted with her care by The One She Had Chosen To Hunt With.

Since she was still trapped and her screeches of protestation were ignored, Iseult had moved and hopped until she had come near enough to the Useless Hunter to hurt him. He had no right to scare the Female!

That Female had no fear of Iseult's rage, had taken her punishment for taking Iseult away from The One She Had Chosen To Hunt With, had procured meat for Iseult and was caring for her until The One She Had Chosen To Hunt With was able to do it on his own.

Yes, the Female was out of the room for far too much and she hadn't stood with Iseult as much as she should have been, but she had behaved far better than what Iseult had expected in the beginning.

The Female had courage, will and the ability to hunt meat for Iseult to eat. This meant that Iseult wasn't going to stand for the Useless Hunter scaring her.

The Female protested but Iseult ignored her, wishing that she could fly. Had she been able to do it, Iseult would have taken out the eyes of the Useless Knight or, at least, made him flee from the room. Having a hurt appendage was far less than what he deserved!

Screeching at him again, Iseult moved until she was between the two, feeling more than ever the absence of the ability to spread her wings and the unbalance that came from that condition.

The Useless Knight was going to have to get past her to get to the Female!

-§-break-§-

**Author Note**

Hiya!

First of all: I have a beta now! My beta is the always wonderful **KyuubyPaw**, who has already done beta-duties for me in the past and is a true godsend for me! So kudos to her and all the help she's been giving me in polishing this chapter off (only the chapter, the Author Note and eventual mistakes in it are all me).

I'm sorry for the delay in posting (I wanted to have the chapter out yesterday around this hour) but I wanted to be sure everything checked out so I kept checking over it. My apologies!

As you can see this chapter was longer than the previous, and we had a little bit of action in this part of the story and both Lancelot and Iseult got their own POVs! Also Lancelot interest for Isobel remains mostly sexual but is now mixing with curiosity and respect. He still wants to bed her, but she's become more interesting than a simple bed-warmer (though Isobel doesn't agree with him, clearly).

I have to admit I'm a little apprehensive about this chapter, since I'm trying to balance the needs of the story against the believability of the characters (plus I'm not sure how Iseult's POV is going to go down with you all, but I really wanted to make people see why the falcon's been acting the way she has).

Wow, so many reviews and alerts! I'm _so_ happy with the response this story is getting from you readers! You cannot see me but I assure you that I have a rather large smile and am positively giddy!

**Baroque**: HA! It was, indeed, one of the things in her mind. It's one of those thoughts that stick around, if only because of the how disgusting they are, and Lancelot already _has_ quite the reputation for being a "ladies knight". He could have very well been returning from a night out or the bed of who knows which girl, for what she knew.

**NOm de Plume**: Thank you very much for the story alert, I'm happy to know you want to follow what I'm writing :D

**Scarlet Rebelle**: Hee, I'm really happy you liked it! I love both history and historical trivia too, so for me it's a pleasure to incorporate them in the story and expand on them, when they fit or is needed. Like I did this time around putting them in the chapter itself (by way of Isobel's reasoning for her own excuse and Lancelot's musings on the same). I think that it makes things more interesting, to take into account how things were different in the past.

**Blackangel90**: Thanks to you too, for adding my story to your story alerts!

**Spooks94**: Hee, I'm a bit of a history nerd myself! I'm happy that the historical notes have been so well received :3. Also yes, men and their dicks … I have two brothers, I've seen how they look at girls *rolls eyes and snickers*. Now, about Lancelot and STDs! Most STDs manifest with sores or skin infections (or pain in the lower bits in some cases) so Lancelot would be aware he had some, if he had. _If_ I decided to give him something, at the moment, I could go with the crabs because what they basically are is lice and both lice and fleas were common at the time to the point of being normally thought of as an annoyance you had to either bear or try to get rid of (but could come back at any given time). There were herbs you could use to try and keep them at bay but it was practically guaranteed they would pop back up sooner or later. Romans used to be more neater than any other civilization of the t ime (what with the baths and personal hygiene care) but populations like the Sarmatians … not so much, which (as we will see) is a huge turn-off for Isobel. (Let's not talk about what I imagine is festering in Gawain's mane of hair, huh? XD).

Now, there's something important I want to highlight, make clear from the beginning let's say. It's something I've had previous bad experiences with (people harping to me about this issue). It also doubles as this chapter's Historical Note, since it's about time-period-related fighting.

Isobel is **not** a better fighter than Lancelot (or any other knight or soldier or warrior). At all.

She caught him completely by surprise (his guard was completely lowered and he was quite distracted too) and that allowed her to get in a lucky combo. She can hold her own in a physical fight (eight years of martial arts _are_ eight years of martial arts after all) but she has (as she herself remarked in the first chapter) no skill at all in what is considered serious fighting at the time.

More than that, Lancelot is a man, which gives him the advantage on muscle capacity and physical force. It would give him the advantage on both even if they had been trained exactly the same way (which they haven't been, not even in the slightest).

He has been trained as an armored fighter (with both one and two swords) and as an archer, both things that require considerable strength. He knows how to ride an horse (strong thigh and leg muscles) and how to fight on it and off it. For his own admission he's been in brawls and knows how to hold his own bare-handed, should the need to do it arise.

Isobel's faster but, for the standards of the time, she's a brawler and nothing else (as things stand). Muay thai practitioners can be fast as hell, hit you hard before you see them coming, BUT they are sorely limited in Arthur Castus's Briton. Why? Because they aren't trained against armors and they fight bare-handed. Most of the warriors of the time were heavy on armor.

Isobel would have a shot against woads (and they still would be armed with knives, swords or axes while she wouldn't which would still put her at sever disadvantage) but against an armored knight or a Saxon? She'll be screwed. Lancelot, on the other hand, is able to hold his own and win against woads, Saxons and even other knights (in practice duels). She's just better at unarmed fighting against an unarmored opponent. Which means almost no-one.

Lancelot's the better fighter (also the strongest fighter, since he's used to fight with two swords [really heavy and taxing on strength if handled properly] and armor [more weight he has to drag around and smoothly move in] which gives him far more muscles than the ones she has).

This may seem like an useless rant, but I've seen people jumping at conclusions before. I've also been accused in the past of having made unrealistic characters or Sues (both male and female) because I gave my characters knowledge of how to fight and the ability to land some hits.

Fighting, skill in doing it, lack of it and how difficult, straining and heavy training can be will feature in the story, at some point in the future. The story will also feature how long it actually takes for someone to earn some skills (of _any_ kind), how hard and frustrating it can be (I hate "insta!skill" just for your information).

The knights can be badasses in the battlefield because they have been taught and trained in how to be heavy hitters (metaphorically but also literally, because have you seen the size of Gawain's mace XD?).

That's not to mention that, in the past, armored cavalry was the equivalent of modern tanks (though the Romans didn't gave cavalry the same consideration it would get in the following ages).

So I felt that it would be better to point out from the beginning that not only I have reasons behind my decisions but that I weight both the fighting abilities of the characters and the situation they are in before I write down the scene.

Also, you have seen that I took the time to introduce part of Isobel's baggage (the bullies she's been a victim of) because it's something that has played a big part in making her the person she is in the story. Without the attacks she wouldn't have started doing martial arts and her personality would be different from the one she has now.

I think that's an important issue and something that will not just 'go away'. It hasn't got away until now and it will always in some way influence her. It's just how life is, at least in my opinion.

I believe that we are, in part, what our life has made us into. Each of us has been formed and taught by the things he/she has experiences / is experiencing / will experience. While we can deal and change the middle ones and hope we are able to do the same with the latter, the former are the ones that have already defined us, helped shape us in who we are and how we deal with things.

It was important to talk about, in the story, because of that. It also is the reason behind the development of the trigger Lancelot unknowingly set off, which I wanted you all to know and I thought it better to put right into the chapter instead of just explaining it afterwards.

I hope it was an interesting read and I would like to hear what you think about it, if you want to take the time to write down a line or two about it. Her issues, her past, her trigger, he reaction (both physical and psychological), how Lancelot dealt with it. Your opinion counts, for me, and I really look forward to hearing them if you want to share (I always welcome discussions and exchanges of opinions).

I could add something about the story Isobel's made up but you already had a detailed explanation of the why and how mid-chapter(with historical bits thrown in because they did fit well) and I won't expand on things already explained.

Thank you for reading and I'll update in a couple of days!


	6. Where things get set in motion

Lancelot was positively intrigued, wherever he had started the day feeling merely determined.

The night before he had being shooed out of Isobel's room by the owner, under the excuse that his presence was clearly upsetting Iseult and it wouldn't be best if he just left anyway now that he had seen that the falcon was healing well?

Knowing when to cut his losses Lancelot had generously allowed the woman her shooing. After all, he was better off waiting for Isobel to be calm again (instead of a nervous wreck) and for Tristan's beast to be out of his feet.

It had appeared to be a winning idea at the time. He had woken up alone and quite determined to see rapid progress done in his self-imposed mission of capturing the roman maid's interest and fancy, mishap of the precedent night notwithstanding.

Lancelot had never bothered to learn how a kitchen worked, satisfied as long as it was working enough to put out the meals that he was able to partake in. Apparently, it was much more time-consuming than what he had supposed, given how many work-related excuses Isobel had been able to fling at him.

Now, a man lesser versed in charming women could have fell for it and believed that the object of his attentions had really her hands so full that she couldn't even spare a moment for him. Luckily for himself, Lancelot wasn't such a man and he knew far too well how a woman could always find menial jobs to indulge in if she wanted to gather the time to speak with a man.

So Isobel didn't wanted to talk to him. The woman had been quite stubborn in her denials of having free time to indulge in and ready to find reasons for which she couldn't be in his presence or allow him to walk her from one destination to another during her rounds.

TO be honest, Lancelot would have given up on her as soon as the third excuse had rolled around if she hadn't also been busy looking everywhere but at him, with the most delicious blush to her cheeks. While he didn't forced women who didn't liked him to bear his company, he had no qualms in jokingly pestering a woman who was trying to resist his charm.

The way she tried not to make a show of refusing his attention just made her even more intriguing than she already was (and she was very much so). The way she failed at doing so, judged by Lancelot on the stares of the other servants and the giggles of the one she had addressed as Ethelind, made the challenge that she was rapidly becoming public (and for that all the more stimulating).

And since Lancelot was an observant man, not the most observant of the knights but enough of it when it suited his purposes, he had noticed how the one called Ethelind had been almost giddy with mirth in witnessing his attempts to corner the slippery Isobel.

Lancelot was a dab hand at strategy and he knew that a single man didn't worked as well as an unit. One needed information, back-up and resources to fall on, if that one wanted to conquer his objective.

From the look of things, the young Ethelind was very well in position to provide all three of those. Which was how he found himself in a corridor near the kitchen, enlisting the girls help to his cause.

**-§-break-§-**

Ethelind had entertained thoughts of roasting the knight-scout's bird when she had managed to get Isobel to confess what the racket from the previous night had been about. What was the stupid beast doing, encouraging that poor woman decision to abstain from having any kind of contact with a man?

It was probably a first in the story of Lancelot's presence at the Wall, for him to be driven out of a girl or woman's room without managing to get her half-undressed, at the very least! Yes, Isobel had quite clearly manifested her relief for the knight's departure but Ethelind knew her enough to be aware that the other woman wasn't indifferent at the Sarmatian's charm.

A knowledge that had only been compounded by more proof when Lancelot had appeared in the kitchen's asking after Isobel. Oh what wouldn't have Ethelind given to have a way to show the Isobel the way her eyes had widened and the fiery blush that she had been far too quick to hide from the knight's gaze!

It had only gotten better and better, what with Isobel doing her best to evade the knight's attention while he kept out of the way of the cook and did his best to keep her from escaping his sight. Ethelind hadn't seen something so entertaining in... well at least a few good months.

Ethelind had made no move to help her friend, which only went to show how good of a friend Ethelind herself was since she was clearly aware of when she wasn't really needed. She hadn't hid her glee either. As if she could have hid it, with the show the two of them had been putting on!

She hadn't been surprised when Lancelot cornered her not too far from the kitchens. Nor had she been put out that the handsome knight had started asking questions about her friend, instead of being interested in her. It was wonderful news, that he was interested in Isobel, no matter what the poor deprived woman thought of it!

"I don't think there's much stitching to be done left so I suppose she will be with the Scout's bird when she's not in the kitchen." She told him, apologetically. She knew he had hoped for better news, given the hate of the animal for him but Isobel was exactly the type to take advantage of such an opportunity to have her stubborn way.

"There won't be a moment she will be either alone or at least without Iseult?" He inquired, quite clearly formulating some sort of plan of attack in his mind. Ethelind had to suppress a giggle. She didn't wanted the man to think she was laughing at him but it was just … finally something was going in the right direction! It left her feeling giddy.

"I know that after dinner she will go to the Healing Rooms. She mentioned something about having to get both her hands and the falcon checked by Jols." She added, after a moment of reflection. Something flashed in his eyes and his mouth curled in a satisfied smile that made Ethelind's knee feel a little weak. He looked positively wicked, right now.

"She did? Good to know." He nodded and then proceeded to weaken her knees a little more by smiling at her. "Thanks for the help, Ethelind. May I search you again, in case I needed your help or information about your slippery friend?" He inquired and Ethelind couldn't nod fast enough.

"Certainly! I will be more than happy to help." She assured him with a wide smile of her own. As if she would ever stand in the way of her friend and some private time with a man! After all the energy she had put into try to get her the opportunity to get some!

Lancelot nodded and his smile became a little wider. He moved away from her and started to make his way down the corridor when Ethelind remembered a fundamental detail that the man _had_ to know if he wanted to have any hope to succeed.

"Please wait!" She called after him, jogging a little to catch up with him. He stopped and turned towards her, an attentive and curious look on his face as he waited for her to close the distance between them.

"She's obsessed with cleanliness, even for the other Roman maid's standards. I've heard her, in more than one occasion, lament the lack of cleanliness of most men around here. I do not think she would never take to her … chambers … a man who isn't freshly cleaned and without any lice or fleas. Not to say that you have them, but..." She let the phrase drop and waited for his nod of confirmation to take a couple of steps back.

"I understand and thank you again for the information you have provided me with." He nodded and Ethelind smiled at him. If the knight was actually willing to bathe for her friend, as he seemed to be, that confirmed beyond any doubt that Ethelind had put her hopes on the right man. Not that she needed confirmation, she trusted her own instincts, but it was nice to have it anyway.

Giggling to herself, Ethelind turned back and headed down towards the kitchen, filled with even more glee than she had been beforehand. Oh, what a wonderful day!

**-§-break-§-**

Somehow, in the course of the last couple of days, Isobel had gone from avoiding the knights to hating how the knights evaded her and back to avoiding them, only this time she was avoiding one particular knight like one would have done with the Plague.

She had even gone as far, cold and other knights presence in the village be damned, to take Iseult with her (as some sort of sentinel and, possibly, early warning system) and step outside of the barracks. Bundled in the cloak she had been given at her arrival at the fort (along with one of her two dresses) she was now walking through the streets and towards the seamstress's house that Ethelind had pointed out to her, in their tour of the Fort.

Iseult head was poking out of the folds of the cloak and, for once, the falcon wasn't screeching. Instead, she appeared to be quite content with the impromptu trip and willing to avoid the attention of the other people in the street.

It was the middle of the afternoon and those who were around were either soldiers, kids or people on route from one destination to another. No one that would give enough attention to a passing woman to note the falcon-head poking out of her cloak.

Isobel kept his steps even, unhurried and looked right in front of herself when she passed a little of Sarmatian's knights, going in the direction she was coming from. Percival and Dinadan, along with Elyan, Ywain and Lucan she counted them in her mind.

She had needed to know them, to know which men avoid, and so she had made a point of memorizing their looks and names. Know thy enemy and all that, even though they weren't strictly her enemies. Whatever, it still applied.

Iseult kept silent and the knights, absorbed as they were in their conversation (one that she couldn't understand since she didn't knew their language), appeared not to have noticed her. She was a good few steps past the little group and almost at the seamstress house when a strong hand grabbed her elbow and she found herself spun around, facing Lucan's scarred face.

The falcon screeched, incensed, and Isobel had to swallow a scream as her heartbeat skyrocketed. Before she could process what had happened she had headbutted the knight and taken a few steps back, clutching Iseult a little tighter as she watched with wide eyes the five knights who had, apparently, doubled back at some point.

They were laughing, at least four of them were, and even Lucan himself appeared to be more amused than angered by her reaction. There was, from the tone of their voices, a fair share of ribbing going on, aimed at Lucan's expenses, and she felt herself redden.

It wasn't enough to have kneed Lancelot? They really had to provoke her into headbutting another one of them? What was with these men and their inability to use words to approach a person or, at least, do it in a way that didn't spook their target?

She thought about apologizing but then rapidly discounted the possibility. The situation with Lancelot had been completely different and Lucan had been the one grabbing her, so if anyone apologized that was going to be him. She doubted he was going to but it was the principle of the thing, so there.

Iseult had calmed down a little, though the way she looked at Lucan seemed, at Isobel's eyes, akin to the one the falcon probably reserved, usually, to her prey's. Somehow, that made Isobel feel better and she found herself squaring her shoulder and looking at them, waiting for their hilarity to calm down.

"Forgive Lucan, he has the manners of a goat." Dinadan told her, once his laughter had died down enough for him to speak. While Lucan's face was scarred and quite disquieting to look at, Dinadan had a charming smile and dimples to die for.

Stupid charming knight, it bore another repeat. (Stupid Charming Knight 3 – Dimple attacks! her mind shouted with glee, and Isobel ignored it, again).

"I forgive him, since he's the one who was most injured by the contact." She answered, her tone as polite and neutral as she could make it. The snark, because it _was_ one, escaped her lips before she could censure it.

She blamed Lancelot and the stress he had put her under for the slip, but the knights didn't appeared to mind. They hooted with laughter, covering Lucan's retort, and initiated another round of ribbing.

Isobel gently petted Iseult's feathers and, again, waited for them to stop acting like hyenas. The falcon was starting to look as unimpressed with them as Isobel herself felt. She had been avoiding _these guys_ for months?

"We wanted to inquire about Iseult's health." Dinadan, again, was the one who spoke to her. Lucan was clearly busy delivering scathing replies at the ribbing his brothers-in-arms were subjecting him to and the others clearly thought that ribbing him was far more interesting than speaking to her.

"Jols told us that a maid had been given the task to care for her. You are that maid, aren't you?" The knight specified when she arched an eyebrow in mute perplexity. She nodded, feeling a little like an idiot for not having anticipated this. The knights would, naturally, be aware that the falcon had been injured and, being Tristan's brothers, they were going to ask after the animal. She could have saved herself so many troubles just by waiting for them!

As she mentally shouted a few choice words ad the address of her own stupidity, she idly reflected if it could be considered yanking saints out of the paradise if the aforementioned saints had yet to be born and become so. The thought was gone a moment later and she lowered her eyes to Iseult's head for a second.

"She's getting better. Her wing should be healed shortly, I've been told, and her moods seems to be improving." She looked up and offered a smile. She knew she should have been trying to pawn off the falcon to one of the knights but she had the impression that Iseult would have been better off in her hands than in the care of one of the hyenas. Dinadan's dimples notwithstanding.

The knight nodded and came closer, distancing himself from the rest of the pack. Iseult watched him with wary eyes, possibly calculating how much she could injure him in her present condition if need be. Isobel probably should have been preoccupied that she was starting to understand the falcon but she was more busy cataloging the reasons why it was a good idea to maintain a distance from Dinadan.

First of all, he reeked. There were no dimples cute and charming enough in the world to make up for the smell of horses, dirt and unwashed human body all mingled together. She had to physically stop herself from making a face and backing away from him.

Arthur Castus's Briton not only sucked _ass_, it reeked of it too!

Second, his hair were long, unkempt, greasy and quite clearly hadn't been washed in a while. She desperately shut off the part of her brain that was speculating on what was nesting in that mane. He had a stubble, more than a beard, but the thing looked like the scratchy kind, not appealing at all. Dimples notwithstanding, indeed.

She found herself lowering her eyes to Iseult's head to avoid letting the knight see exactly how much his presence horrified her. She didn't wanted her horror to be misinterpreted as fear of the man, because she didn't feared him. She was just disgusted by his appearance.

"Are you taking her somewhere or are you on some kind of errand?" Dinadan asked, while the peanut gallery behind him had finally managed to piss off Lucan enough for them to initiate some kind of scuffle, from the sound of it.

Isobel wasn't looking, concentrated as she was on taking little breaths with her mouth and looking at Iseult's head, but it sounded like at least two of them were in it.

"I have to see a seamstress for new winter clothes and I thought that Iseult would appreciate being taken out of my room and out in the open." She answered as Dinadan's armor entered her visual field and he stopped at no more than two steps of distance from here. He reeked even worse up-close and Isobel had a difficult time not to gag at the man.

Living and working in the barracks had exposed her mostly to Romans, who were as clean as the current times allowed them to be, or Britons who worked for the Romans, and as such kept cleaner than the others because the Romans demanded it (or so Ethelind claimed).

Lancelot hadn't reeked so much, hadn't almost reeked at all and she suddenly found herself missing the man's presence, pestering be damned. At least she was able to breath freely around that one! Dinadan's smell made her feel nauseous.

"I see. It's really surprising how calm she looks in your arms. You must have a gift with the animals." He told her and Isobel suppressed a snort and a roll of her eyes (it _was_ knight-related then! … or maybe it was stupid charming knight's related? She discounted the line of thought).

"I suppose we have reached an understanding. I keep her with me, instead of leaving her in my room, and she doesn't tries to screech my ear off." She answered, rising her eyes to his face now that she was, sadly, starting to feel a little less disgusted by the smell he was putting out.

He was smiling and the dimples were out in full force. He also had friendly green eyes that made her insides twist a little. When he laughed, in response to her answer, his laugh was warm and relaxed and made a couple of butterflies show up. Sadly for him, and luckily for her, the effect of his charm was severely crippled by both the sight of his greasy hair and the way he reeked.

Iseult didn't appeared to like his laugh as much as she did because she screeched again, clearly not approving of the man's actions. Without even thinking about it, Isobel resumed brushing the falcon's feathers with her thumbs, in a soothing movement.

"I see the understanding is limited to the two of you and doesn't extend at me." He chuckled and then smiled brightly, openly ignoring the yelps and thumping sounds coming from behind him as the scuffle proceeded. From the sound of the voices, two of them were still at it and the other three were egging them on. Hyenas, really.

"I suppose not." She agreed, with a nod of her head. She didn't felt as uneasy with Dinadan as she had with Gawain or Lancelot. Part of it was because she had, by now, started giving up her hope of limiting her contact with the knight themselves.

The fact that Dinadan wasn't as forward and attractive, for the aforementioned reasons of smell and greasiness, as Lancelot was also a big part of it. She wouldn't have touched him with a ten feet pole and that allowed her to overcome the nerves and just _talk_ with him.

"Come, I won't make you late. The seamstress house is near, isn't it? I will walk you to it and you can tell how you've come to tame Tristan's falcon." He told her, making it not a proposition but a declaration of intents.

Isobel felt slightly irked by it, as she always did when confronted with the way man dictated things in the _now_. She didn't voice it, though, knowing it would be pointless and quite stupid on her part and instead nodded, offering him a slight smile while she tried not to balk at the prospect of having to tolerate his reeking far more than what she had expected to.

"I haven't tamed her at all." She answered instead, bristling inside at the thought of stubborn, strong-willed and free Iseult being tamed by anyone.

Whatever it was that united the falcon and Tristan she was sure it wasn't the subservience that came from an animal tamed and its master but more of a bond between equals. She had no proof of it but she felt it was obvious, at least for anyone with any kind of understanding of Iseult's character.

"I don't want to tame her either. I just hope she will get better soon, so I do what I can to make her recovery easier." She explained, when he shot her an amused and encouraging look. He had the armor on, like the rest of the pack had, and there was a long sword scabbard attached to his back.

She had already took note of the fact that the knights didn't make use of the same weapons but, instead, had a different one each. The maids gossiped a lot about it, relating stories of Lancelot's two swords, Gawain's mace and of how Ywain's accuracy with his bow rivaled Tristan's own, just to name a few.

It was different, though, to see, if only in passing, the weapons themselves. The sword looked big, even now that it was secured in it's scabbard, and surely heavy, which accounted for Dinadan's muscled arms. His clothes didn't disguise the fact that he was ripped, something that all the knights seemed to have in common, as was natural given the armor and weapons they had to efficiently battle with.

"It may be the key but I don't think it's something I could do. I never had much of a gift with animals. My own horse made my life difficult until I managed to make him understand that, like it or not, he was going to have to obey my commands." The knight mused, with an amused chuckle at his own disgrace that brought a smile to Isobel's lips.

Reeking and probably infested greasy hair apart, Dinadan wasn't that bad, she decided. A look at Iseult showed that the falcon had apparently decided to accept the presence of the knight, at least for the moment, though she didn't appeared all that pleased about it.

Oh well, everyone had to make sacrifices sometimes.

**-§-break-§-**

Augusta Minor, second daughter of Augustus Junius, was one of the seamstresses of the Fort. At fifteen winters she was old enough to be married, though she wasn't yet, and far more than old enough to do her work. She'd been old enough since she had been ten and had worked for all the last five years, learning the finer points of the craft from her sister Augusta Major and her mother Julia.

Her mother wasn't at the Castrum at the moment but on a trip, with her father as escort, to buy a few carts of new cloth and materials from the merchants down in Londinium. It was a risky voyage, and a long one at that, but it wasn't the first time a caravan had departed the fort with at least a member of their family in it. Londinium meant prime quality leather, fur and cloth that would ensure their service's quality and the reconfirm of their house as the best furnished shop to buy from.

There were a couple of other seamstresses at the Castrum but there was no other family with the same credit the Junius had with the local Roman population. Though that meant having to deal with Praetor Castus's Sarmatians, it also meant that they could afford to treat most if not all of the Roman population of the Castrum and the nearby villages. The other seamstresses could very well take care of the Britons, the Junius family was the one the Romans who couldn't or wouldn't get their clothes at the Quaestorium went to.

Their house, whose main floor had been converted in their shop, was situated in the public market area of the Castrum. With their parents away, the manning of the shop it had fallen in the hand of Caius and Lucius, Augusta Minor's older brothers.

When the Equites made his entrance in their shop, escorting a plain looking woman huddled in a plain cloak years-old and looking it, there was only Lucius in the shop with her. Augusta Major was at the house of one of her friends, helping plan Licinia's matrimonium, and Caius had left not even half an hour before, to go see if the smiths at the Fabrica were done with the latest batch of fibulae for them.

"Good day. How can we help you?" Her brother inquired, while Augusta continued practicing her needlework. Augusta Major had volunteered both of them to sew up Licinia's matrimonium's dress and she had been practicing in her spare time for at least a week now. She used a piece of spare cloth to work on, pulling out the stitches any time she was done so that she could re-use both. She had been steadily getting better and she hoped to be ready soon.

"I am Isabella Antonia, I work as a maid in the barracks. I find myself in need of new clothes for the coming winter and I had hoped you could tell me your rates." The woman explained, her Latin far more pleasant to hear than the garbled, accented version the Equites with her would have undoubtedly spouted.

Her brother smiled, clearly pleased at having to deal not with the knight, but with a Roman like them. The name wasn't exactly familiar at Augusta's ears but she did remember the story of a Roman woman who had taken refuge at the Castrum, after her village had been destroyed.

People at the Castrum knew each other, especially the Romans who lived there, as opposite to most of the legionaries that remained only until their 25 years of service were up and then went back were they had come from. Since no other Roman women had recently made their way to the Castrum, that was good enough of a clue that the woman in the old-looking cloak was the one that had arrived a few months ago.

She was far older than Augusta, which probably meant she had lost her whole family, the poor thing. It must have been terrible for her to lose her husband, for one didn't arrived at her age unmarried unless one was ugly and the woman wasn't, and maybe even her sons or daughters! Augusta's heart went out to the older woman, who apparently had no one to help her around but the barbarians that served under the command of Praetor Castus.

This was no way of living, slaving away at work without even having the opportunity to just go on an errand without being shadowed by a barbarian shadow. That poor woman had probably never showed up at the various festivals because she feared to anger the guardians she had been saddled with.

"Come nearer. I can read for you the prices off the tablet." Her brother offered, gesturing for the woman to come closer. Only her, since there was no way neither Lucius nor Augusta wanted that dirty barbarian near their counter. The gods knew she could already hear the reek of his body from where she was! She had no idea how that poor thing put up with the lot of them.

"Thank you, you are very kind." The woman, Isabella? How lucky had she been not having to bear her father's name like Augusta, replied in a gentle voice. She was quite clearly a proper Roman girl, gentle and respectful of her better, unlike the barbarian she had been saddled with.

Speaking of which, the Equites was still shadowing her, looking around as he kept hold of what looked like a scary-looking bird. The beast had been trapped in some sort of bandage but that did nothing to reduce its scariness, considering how dark and full of hatred the beast eyes were. Obviously, a barbarian's animal couldn't be much better than its owner.

Augusta tuned her brother out as he read aloud the prices for the woman to consider, and kept the Equites in the corner of her eye as she continued her needlework. Licinia had chosen quite a tricky pattern for her matrimonium's dress and there were still a couple of passages that ended up messed up more often than not.

It was only when the time came for the woman to be measured that her brother called on her. Isabella had apparently lost weight during her ordeal after her village had been attacked and she needed her measures to be taken again.

Who could fault the poor thing? Losing everything but your life only to end up working yourself into exhaustion under the eye of dirty, violent barbarians who, no doubt, had no sympathy at all for their charge! Augusta wasted no time in putting aside her needlework.

She smiled at the older woman, guiding her in the back room, and gesturing for her to get undressed. A man couldn't take a woman's measure, it simply wasn't done, so it fell on either work on approximations or having another woman take note of the measures. After all, it was only a matter of tracing the same little signs Augusta saw on the measuring stick down on a clear tablet. Her brother could make sense of them later.

"I haven't seen you at any of the festivals." She ventured, as measured both legs and then reported down the signs, with painstaking cure and attention so to make sure she hadn't gotten them mixed up. The cloth could be cut only one time and one could never know if the wrongly cut cloth could be re-used for someone else or not. Augusta had only needed to be punished once in her whole life and she had no desire for it to happen again.

"I wasn't sure of my position in the Castrum. I have no family left, no living male relatives." Isabella explained and Augusta had to catch the tablet before it could fall to the floor and shatter. She hadn't thought about it! Isabella was a _Sui Iris_, a woman who had the right not only possess property by even to make all of the decisions regarding her fate on her own!

No father to choose an husband for her, no husband to deal with legal and property matters, no sons to take care of the finances. She was completely free of any familiar obligation to her male relatives and there was no one but the community to watch over her actions and eventually condemn her for them.

Augusta felt almost dizzy thinking about how much harder Isabella's life must have become, what with her having to deal with all the matters usually taken care of by males. At the same time, she couldn't help but feel envious of the older woman, who was clearly old enough not to need a tutor to watch over her interests and was now unburdened by the weight of having to do whatever her male relatives ordered her to do.

"Are you all right? You have paled." Isabella inquired and Augusta sat down on the pavement and took a deep breath, recomposing herself before she hastened to reassure the other woman the she had just been caught by surprise by the realization of her status as a _sui iris_, an emancipated woman.

"I know it isn't common but it indeed is my status and why I wasn't sure of my position in the Castrum. I took my time to clear my thought and think about the implications of being a woman who has the same legal rights of a man." The older woman explained, in a low voice, as Augusta breathed deeply again, going back to taking the necessary measurements.

"I think you should behave as you have done until now, _domina_." Augusta offered, using the title for a Roman of higher rank. As an emancipated woman, Domina Isabella was the head of her own family, until she married again, and that put her on an higher level than any normal woman.

It didn't made her a Patrician, though it was commonly known that the Antonii gens had once upon a time being Patricians and had later fallen from grace and become plebes like Augusta herself was. Still, being a _sui iris_ set her apart from all the Roman women living at the Castrum and Augusta felt that this needed to be acknowledged.

"Domina?" The other woman inquired, lifting a brow in what was undoubtedly a Patrician-like gesture. Her husband had probably been a servant, if she knew how to be a maid, but a head-servant at least if not a personal servant to the Patrician they had served.

She had certainly been a Patrician's wife personal maid, Augusta now clearly saw it in her bearing. She had a strong body, strong muscles and was clearly used to work. The Castrum had robbed her of the softness her arms must had once upon a time displayed. A shame that one such as her had fallen so low.

"You are _sui iris_, your family and gens are just yours. There is no man to tell you what to do and so you are, in the eyes of the law, a woman with the power and rights of a man. I cannot address you like a common woman when you are anything but." She explained, daring to lift her eyes to watch the domina's reaction. She blushed and wasn't that the sign of a virtuous woman, to be modest?

"Do not worry, domina, I am almost done." She reassured the woman, taking even greater care in transcribing the signs on the tablet. She wasn't as much of a gossiper as her mother or her sister but Augusta felt that in this case her tongue may be pardoned if she let it loose enough to recount to her friends, and Augusta Major too, the story of the domina.

It wasn't as if she would do it for her own gain or pleasure! It was simply criminal for a woman like Domina Isabella to be relegated to work in the barracks. Away from the eyes of her own gens, the other Romans of better standing than servants, who would have surely accepted her with open arms had they known about her situation.

**-§-break-§-**

Perhaps because he was a friend or Tristan, as he had told her in route to the clothing shop, Dinadan didn't appear to be so black-listed in Iseult's metaphorical book as some of the other knights. Why, it had only taken up to twenty minutes to get the falcon to accept being held by the man. It was a temporary measure, though, only to free Isobel for the time she needed to spend being told prices, measured and then showed various colors of cloth.

Dinadan had even gone as far as giving her input, mostly on whether lining her cloak with fur was a good or bad idea (good) and what kind of fur would be best (she still wasn't sure about _that_ but she had allowed him to make the choice for her, since he was so determined that his opinion was the right one). Smell and possibly-infested-mane apart, and she was getting used to those, he wasn't a bad guy to hang around with.

"Do you know what a _sui iris_ is?" She asked him as they walked away from the seamstresses shop and through the Public Market of the Fort. Iseult was back in her hands and much happier for that, from what Isobel could notice. It was quite clear, by now, that the falcon didn't like men very much, her owner not included. Given what she had seen of the not-Roman population of the Fort, Isobel quite agreed with her.

"Never heard of one before. Is it some kind of dress?" Dinadan inquired, with a smile, cocking his head to the side and watching her clearly bemused. Isobel suppressed a snort and shook her head, allowing herself a little chuckle. She was still trying to wrap her head around the idea of being addressed as a "domina" and her brain wasn't helping, since it was basically rolling around laughing, the traitor.

"No. A _sui iris_ is a woman who has no father, no brothers, no husband nor sons to take care of her. She is alone and, according to the Roman law, she is to be considered as equals, in rights and duties, to a man." She explained, reworking a little the words that the seamstress had used to express the concept.

Used as she was at making decisions for herself, taking care of her own life, Isobel hadn't considered how unusual it was for the time or what it could have meant on a legal level to be a woman on her own. She had simply gone and did her thing, without stopping to think about it.

She had been stupid, to put it simply. She should have tried to find out more about her situation, so to be prepared when questions would have aroused. Isobel had completely forgotten that the Romans, the pagan ones that still held worship for their old gods, had a lengthy calendar of festivals dedicated to their worship and that those festivals worked as social events she should have probably taken part in.

It didn't surprised her that Ethelind had said nothing about them. Ethelind was a converted Briton, one of the local celtic populations, and she conformed to the Church mandated festivities, which meant she wouldn't have taken part to pagan festivals. Even if she did had taken part in those, they would still have been the ones of her culture and, as such, not the Roman's ones. Which was why, given her self-imposed seclusion in work, she had basically cut herself off from the people who were supposed to be her own.

She had invented an excuse on the spot and that excuse had lead her to that lucky little nugget of information that was her status of a _sui iris_. If she was supposed to have the role of a man there were some things she could maybe tweak and turn in her own favor. She would have to talk to Commander Castus about it, but she was suddenly feeling almost dizzy with all the ideas, opportunities and leeway that were popping up in her brain.

"And you are telling about this because you are one?" Dinadan's voice wrenched her away from her thoughts and she nodded, finding herself under his scrutiny as they passed over the edge of the marked and turned into the Via Praetoria, their feet taking them in the direction of the Principia, the main square of the Fort. The argument had clearly picked up his interest.

"I am. I came here a few months ago, after the Saxons destroyed my village and left me for me dead in it." She turned her head away from him, eyes dropping down to look at Iseult as she resumed the stroking motion the falcon appeared to accept and be soothed from.

"I lost my husband and all of my family. I am a woman with no male relatives to make her decisions and, as such, I have to take care of everything myself." She explained and, saying this, she squared her shoulders a little and turned her gaze back on to him.

She didn't resent her position, wasn't afraid of it. To be completely honest, it rather suited her not having someone to answer to as it had suited her that, according to Arthur Castus's records, there had been no long lost relative to ship her off to. Good riddance to that.

"Interesting." Dinadan nodded, clearly mulling the thought in his head. Isobel allowed him his time, walking at his side and letting her gaze wander around the village, looking at the activities going on around her.

Most of those were of military nature, since this was a Military Fort and the legionaries in it had their duties to attend. There were far more military types around than civilians, though it was clear that the Fort housed a good deal of both Roman and Britons. It was interesting to see and it kept her entertained while Dinadan thought.

"So you are, in the eyes of the law, a man." He said, after a while, looking at her in a way that made clear that he was quite aware that she was anything but a man, in his eyes. She felt herself redden slightly (stupid charming knight number 3), but nodded anyway as he chuckled.

"Well, you headbutt like one." He teased and she blinked at him for a moment, before her brain caught on and she started laughing, immediately joined by him. Dinadan was … charming could have been a good word but, more than that, he was someone who struck her as trustworthy. It was almost a strange feeling to have, in her situation, but it was the same feeling that at drawn her to Ethelind (who _could_ be trusted, in some ways) and Isobel decided to go with it.

For all of her matchmaking, Ethelind was a good friend to have and Isobel needed people around her she could trust, people she would be able to rely on, if only for a little while. Dinadan was a dead man walking, one of the same knights that she had spent months avoiding, but Isobel had given up in avoiding them and if she couldn't do that, what harm could it be to befriend one? Everyone died, sooner or later.

**-§-break-§-**

Arthur had seen and faced many things that most wouldn't even dream of being confronted with. He had learned from Pelagius about freedom and equality, he had faced battles and enemies of many kinds and he routinely had not only debates with Lancelot-the-atheist but also a rowdy bunch of disgruntled Sarmatian's. That without considering all the politics that came with his position as the Praetor of the Castrum and all of the responsibilities that came from it.

Yet, in his life he had never even entertained the thought of one day finding himself faced with a woman that not only _desired_ and had interest in learning how to write and do calculations, but had also a sort of _legal right_ to ask as much.

To be completely honest, once he had been assured that the Antonia woman had settled down, and was giving no one reasons to complain about her, he had proceeded to put her out of his mind. He had to send Scouts to her village, reports to read, the Quaestor requests for restocking to see to and many other things that took precedence over a woman who was as unobtrusive as he had ever seen one be.

He had been so focused on other, more important, matters that he hadn't considered the fact that the aforementioned woman was, in fact, in the position to claim the status of _sui iris _and, with it, the duty and right to learn what many men would have learned at a far younger age. Had she been younger, not of age, a tutor should have been assigned to her in order to help the girl overcome the obstacles that came from her new status.

While _sui iris _were practically unheard of in Briton, Arthur himself had confirmed to the woman that she had no living relatives left. It had been, Arthur thought, gross negligence on his part that had allowed for the woman to be left in a sort of limbo where she had no clear idea of how to conduct herself. It was no surprise that only the people she worked with had any vague idea of who she was.

He knew this because, not even an hour after she had made his request to him, he had found himself face to face with a delegation of Roman citizens that had come to inform him (read: berating him under the excuse of informing him) that he had a _sui iris_ woman who had practically sequestered herself in the barracks and completely avoided contacted with her peers because of her uncertainty about her standing in the community.

After promising that he would reassure the woman in question on her position, and see to it that she was treated with the respect any woman in her position should get, he had managed to calm them enough to get them to leave his office.

Since the citizens that had come to him had mentioned the fact that the woman was followed around by one of his knights (complete news to Arthur and, apparently, almost an insult in the bigoted eyes of the roman community), Arthur had then proceeded to call a meeting with the knights to see not only which one he was but also to get a general assessment on the woman herself.

Which was when he found out that the woman, Isobel, had been tasked with the health of Tristan's falcon by an unknown someone in the Valetudinarium. Arthur had seen the falcon and he had seen what happened to anyone, apart from Tristan, who tried to laid hand on it (let's say that it was a gruesome sight and leave it at that).

He hadn't been surprised to know that she had been injured by the animal but he had been completely blindsided by the news that, somehow, she had bonded with the animal to the point where she had been able to convince the falcon to let himself be held by Dinadan without bloodshed.

She had somehow managed to give Lancelot a bruise the size of her knee under his chin and to headbutt Lucan the very next day. She had, according to Lancelot himself in his case and a handful of others in Lucan's case, a good reason to do both. Lancelot had also expanded on the argument, explaining about the training she had received in her past and the circumstances that had led to it (which wasn't exactly a negative, since now she found herself having to rely only on her own ability, with no family whatsoever to protect her).

There had been much laughter at the expanses of both knights and a good deal of skepticism, on which Arthur agreed, that had lead to Lancelot telling Galahad to either shut up or see for himself how Isobel managed to hold her own against an unarmed enemy. Which had lead to Galahad said that he was going to, if the woman didn't refused to back her words with actions.

Arthur just knew, felt it in his gut, that he was going to be one to ask her if she was agreeable to it and wasn't that matter going to be a joy? In the event she said no, Lancelot was going to be mocked mercilessly and probably try to convince the woman to change her mind.

Should she say yes, it would be either an hollow victory for Galahad (who was a trained soldier whose opponent was a mere woman) or a defeat (though Arthur seriously doubted this possibility) that would get Galahad himself mocked and probably riled up enough to insult the woman in some way, if only to answer at the jests thrown at him. Arthur knew, from observing rather than from personal observation, how evil a woman could become if she felt slighted.

She had also, somehow, impressed Lancelot enough to not only take a bath but, from the looks of it, a through and rigorous scrubbing along with the bath itself. Talk about minor miracles. Arthur hadn't seen the man so clean in … had he ever seen Lancelot so clean, now that he thought about it? He couldn't remember a time his skin hadn't been at least covered by a thin layer of dirt.

All in the last three days.

God help him, Arthur had a feeling that the headache he was feeling was going to rapidly deteriorate into a full blown migraine, if things kept cropping up at the same rhythm.

**-§-break-§-**

_He was flying, soaring high in the wind as his eyes followed the world unraveled under him._

_There was a lock of brown hair slipping through his fingers, the curve of a soft smile._

_The laugh of children filled the air._

_Steel clashed against steel, grey against grey. _

_A wolf._

_Cold crept down in his bones, until nothing was left but burning ice and cold rage._

_The crackling of the fire in his ears and he knew he was home._

_He was flying, soaring high in the wind as his eyes followed the world unraveled under him._

_He forgot._

In the Valetudinarium, Tristan came back to consciousness.

**-§-break-§-**

**Author Note**:

Hey to everyone!

I made you wait more than I had thought I would and I'm really sorry for that, but I hope you'll like the fact that instead of 4 to 6 pages with 2 more of Historical Note following this time you get 12 full pages (and three lines) plus five pages of thoughts and Historical Note!

I've decided to try my hand at longer chapters. They will take me a little more time to write them out and so updates will be a tad slower but at least the chapters will be more meaty!

This chapter too (author note and historical notes excluded again) has been vetted by my dear **KyuubyPaw**, who has been an absolute darling to me and has boosted me all the way through the writing of it!

Personal note: YAY, I'm 26 years old as of this past 26 December!

**Baroque**: Usually I'm a "one person POV" too (mostly because it's easier to led the readers and the story where you want it to go and keep certain aspects of the story secret if the POV you're reading has no possibility to be aware of those aspects). Multiple POVs are not an absolute novelty for me but I've always used them sparsely. In this case, as you can see, we get many multiple POVs. I'm experimenting with them as a way to show how complex a society can be and how different people see things in completely different ways that still end up affecting the main character of the story. I hope you'll continue to enjoy them! And I'm happy you like the Historical Notes because there will be a few them for this chapter and more to come! XD

**xxmadmooxx1995xx**: Thanks for the Story Alert, it made me really happy! Hope you'll continue the enjoy the story :)

**Dgfleetfox**: You had me blushing and grinning like madly! I'm really happy that you're liking it and that it hit the right spots with you! As you can see I have updated and don't worry about the length! We have ten years to cover to get to the events of the movie and I will still go on afterwards for a fair few years so we're both (you as a reader and I as the author) in for a long haul of a fic!

Notes about this chapter of the fic (since I already do it, let's give it its own section XD)

Isobel has, of now, technically being an almost stagnant presence in the world around her for five months. She has isolated herself, desperately trying to function while (on a few subconscious levels) she was still in denial (both about her situation and what she did see in the village she woke in).

She limited herself to work and basically blocked anyone but Ethelind from coming close to her (and Ethelind isn't as close to Isobel as she thinks she is, because there are parts and secrets of Isobel she won't ever know, for obvious reasons).

This is not only not healthy in the long run but it also kept her from actually building something for herself in the world she's in. She refused to deal with the outside world in an effort of self-preservation that, whether she wanted it or not, had to come to an end. No person in an island and she was bound to have to come in contact with the community surrounding her.

As I said in my notes a couple of chapters back, the seamstresses were going to be a part of the story and now you have met at least one of them. Augusta Minor has constructed a few castles in her head hasn't she? *chuckles*.

What she's doing is what many of us do (at least according to psychological studies) and that is taking her first impression of a person and stick to it, noting only the things that fit the impression she made. Dinadan is a barbarian and she will always see the worst of him, putting a negative spin on his actions while Isobel is an hard-working Roman woman and Augusta will praise or judge her actions under that light.

Ethelind was in this chapter too, quite happily giving Lancelot tips and help in his "quest" to get Isobel to interact with him. Neither of them understand that he's coming on too strong and that a more calm approach (like Dinadan's) could work better.

Lancelot is in a "Shiny, different, new! I want it!" phase with a dash of "Doesn't want to admit she wants me, so I must get her". Which suits Ethelind perfectly since she has never thought of Lancelot as anything more than a way for Isobel to get laid and relax a little, to sum it up.

I must admit that it's also true that Dinadan was helped by being so disgusting that Isobel felt practically none of the attraction she could have potentially felt for him otherwise. It gave him a chance to struck a far different impression of the one Lancelot left.

This, again, is a reflection of the psychological concept of 'having a first impression and running with it'. First impressions _can_ be changed (_will_ change in the course of the story in certain cases and for certain people or groups of persons) but you have to work at it which is why they are so important.

Dinadan is … he's one of the knights I've taken from the Arthurian Saga Legends. Good friend of Tristan (which is why he went to talk with Isobel and caught the occasion to accompany her around instead of remaining to see the impromptu match). He's described as a good fellow, jovial and witty and with a clever tongue when he wants it to be. He's also one of the few knights who's not really in the idea of courtly love (his view on love are quite negative instead) which I translate to him not being so much of a horn dog as the others in this setting.

About poor Arthur … the life of a Commander (or Praetor, depending on the language) isn't easy by any means, he just didn't needed the added stress that has be dumped in his lap. Still, it was going to happen sooner or later *snickers*.

Isobel's not one to let herself escape an occasion to openly acquire some skills if she can help it (as she's done with her request to learn how to write and do math).

If you have any other questions about what happened in this chapter do ask away, I'll answer happily! Now, onto the Historical Notes!

Historical Notes

I'll try to go from the beginning to the end of the document and see if I can put everything that wasn't already made clear in the chapter here (though you may have noted that there was a heap of historical information in the story itself).

The knights not being put out by her reaction. She's just a woman in their eyes, nothing more and nothing less. They look at it like … let's say like we would look at an harmless puppy getting in a lucky shot (both for the headbutt and the retort). You laugh at it and laugh at the poor sod who's been bitten but it's not like you give the puppy any flack for it. She's not pretending to be better than them, she's not asking them to respect her, she's not chiding nor treating them badly. It's a better treatment than the one they usually get from most of people who live at the fort and aren't soldiers (and even from some of the legionaries).

She's a bit mouthy maybe but not in the sense of disrespecting them, because she didn't. She just shot a snarky and accurate remark to the one of them who had grabbed her (and Lucan answered in kind, though she didn't hear it because of the other knight's laughter). Nothing to get riled or worked up over.

For the standard of non-Roman populations of the time, Dinadan wasn't all that bad (in term of lack of cleanliness and smell). He was actually in the norm or even a little tame. Isobel's reaction must be judged in modern time standards (we are cleaner than the Roman were but we also know many things that they didn't).

Naming conventions comes back in play! You can find my explanation on them a couple of chapters back and you can see why I warned you all that they would come into play in the story. Many populations defined the people in them like "x son of x" or "y daughter of y" or "x son of x and y" and so on. Romans were more … peculiar about it.

Also, about the changes in terms in the text. We have been, until now, in the heads of Isobel, Ethelind and Lancelot (Iseult doesn't count in language terms, she's a falcon).

Isobel thinks in English (though she does express herself in either Latin or what she has cobbled together of the local language). Ethelind thinks in the local language, though she has learned Latin because she was raised in the Fort and works into it and that means she has to know it. Since I have no idea of how the locals named the various places and charges, I kept it in English. Lancelot thinks in his mother-language (to keep things simple let's call it Sarmatian, though it surely was some kind of Slavic language) as does the other knights. Again, I have no idea of how the various places and charges were called in his language so I kept it in English.

In this chapter we get both Augusta Minor's POV (Roman) and Arthur's POV (Half-Roman and Half-Briton, brought up by a Roman Priest). They think of places within the fort (or locations outside of it) in the proper Latin terms. While I can't get hold of all of them I've got hold of most of them (because I drew a map! But more on this later). Which is why you get Latin terms to describe Roman conventions or places.

I will always include a translations of the terms I've used and the list for the chapter you have just read (coupled with brief explanation of the meaning) is the following:

_Castrum_ – Roman Military Fort. More on this one later (related to the map I spoke of)

_Londinium_ – London.

_Praetor_ – The first officer or commanding officer of a Castrum. In our case, Arthur.

_Quaestorium_ – The military supply office.

_Equites_ – The name of the cavalry units and men.

_Matrimonium_ – The roman equivalent of 'wedding'.

_Fabrica_ – The wood and metal workshop of the Castrum.

_Fibulae_ – Brooches.

_Sui Iris_ – Emancipated woman (that one should be clear by now, I suppose XD).

_Domina_ – Literally a female master or owner. By the latest phases of the Empire, though, it had come to be a term that encompassed both actual owners of other persons and people of a more elevated standing than the one using the term. It was also used towards clients in the various shops. The male correspondent was _Dominus_.

_Quaestor_ – The military supply officer.

About the Festivals and pagan Romans. Historically, the Romans had a huge number of little festivals held to celebrate the various gods in their pantheon with a smattering of bigger festivals in-between. Most Romans were converted by the time Arthur's time period came around, but there still were some (especially in the more "backwards" areas) that still held up their worship of the old pantheon. Festivals were also treated as a social occasion during which people had an excuse to drink, dance and relax.

It was also quite common and normal, for the Roman Empire, to tolerate other people religions and allow them a space in which pray or celebrate their own deities. Intolerance came in later times, because part of what held the Empire together was the fact that they didn't try to impose their religion on others but instead absorbed their beliefs or respected them.

Christians had so much problems and were so much persecuted partly because their faith allowed for no other gods and they completely refuted any kind of god but theirs. That was a really dangerous line of thinking for an Empire like that of Rome and part of the reason Christians were so persecuted (though, obviously, the matter was much more complex than simply that). Since the Fort houses both Romans and Britons there were going to be altars for the pagan gods along with a church (as you will see in the aforementioned map). After all, I can't really see Arthur protesting the freedom of thought and belief, not with how he's been portrayed.

About Patricians and Plebeians. Those were the two main social classes at the time, for the Romans. You either were one or the other though there were various levels of wealth and influence inside the two classes.

Patricians were the elite families of the Roman Empire (families in the sense of both natural and adopted members of the family). High council officers were included too, in later times. You were either born one (because the family you were born in were a patrician one) or you could get adopted into one. Patricians didn't had different rights from the plebeians but they did had what accounted to a majority vote (if the family worked together) in the main legislative body of Rome, which allowed them a major political power. Also, most members of the priesthood came from Patricians families.

Plebeians (or Plebs) were the other class. Not exactly lower, though they were considered distinct from Patricians (who were considered automatically more refined and influential). Plebeians could become very influential, if they managed to become wealthy and struck political alliances with the Patricians. They included any Roman citizen that wasn't a Patrician.

Regarding the Antonii fall from grace. The Antonii family (of whom Marc Antony was probably a member) had been Patrician at some point during the history of Rome. They fell from power, lost money and status until they were considered just plebeian branches of a family who had once been great. Their gens name became really common, so that many people could claim to be of their gens but that wouldn't have meant anything.

About women rights. Women were citizens like the men but they couldn't neither vote nor hold public office. Apart from that, they had the same rights as men. Patricians born women were able to study and get educated (to the point of being praised for their learning) and were able to leave a trace of them in the history of the Empire.

As kids, they played the same games that boys did (dolls apart), and many of the patricians born girls (or the daughters of men holding some kind of relevant position, like daughters of a centurion) were sent to public primary school along with the boys of their age.

They learned Latin, though members of the elite were instructed in both Greek and Latin since an early age, and were taken to dinners, social events and festivals to make them learn by example how to behave in the society setting. The girls, in addiction to that, were also trained in how to make a household work and how to behave according to their station in the society.

Girls and boys were usually considered out of childhood and into adolescence at the age of 14 but the consent age for marriage was of 12 for the girls and 14 for the boys. Marriages were arranged by the father of the girl and the plebeians girls usually married in their late teens (up until twenty years of age). The Patrician girls were the one to be married off young (though they could get out of a betrothal if they were able to show that the future husband was a bad character). Girls were expected to remain loyal to their father even after married, to the point of always taking their father's side, even against their own husband.

Women did not had an official part in the public life, though, and that led to a separation of boys and girls when they came of age. Women that had come of age didn't went out as much as kids did and did not had part in the public life, unless made part of it by the male members of the household.

Given our setting is not that of Rome but of a backward part of the Empire I thought about it and decided that Arthur was the local Patrician (given his status as Praetor of the Fort) and that most if not all of the other Romans in the Fort must have been plebeians. That meant that the education would be taken care of by the local christian priest for the boys (without any Greek) and that the girls would be home-schooled if the family wished for them to be educated (not really all that probable).

A daughter of a servant, like Isobel had identified herself, wouldn't have known how to write and read but a _sui iris_ would not only had the right to ask to be educate but she would have been almost required to know how to handle herself (unless she took an husband to take care of things for her).

And this takes us to the "feminine emancipation" part of the story.

_Sui iris_ is not the right term and that is deliberate on my part, because it was something that Augusta Minor had _heard_ about but had no idea of how was neither written nor pronounced.

The right term is _Sui Iuris_ from the latin _sui juris_ that meant "of one's own laws" and indicated a person who was able to manage its own affairs. It came to being used as a way to point out women who had become emancipated because they would have had almost any say in their own affairs otherwise. Augusta summed it up pretty well in the text, so I won't add much else to the argument. If you wish for some clarification, though, you can always ask and I will try to provide!

Map

I have made a map of the Fort / Castrum. I do not mean a 'I think that's how things would have been' map. I mean an 'I took books and wikipedia and looked up how a Castrum was built and organized at the time and I drew it out' map. I will upload it on my photobucket and I'm going to put it up in my profile after I upload this chapter so you will find it here.

I apologize if you can't understand my writing (I should have wrote it out in block letters, I know, but I was kinda possessed by the idea of doing it while I was recreating the map and I forgot). I will put another, hopefully cleaner version (cleaner and maybe even color-coded) at a later time but for now I hope it will suffice. Just in case you can't understand my writing I will add in my profile an explanation of what you can see in the map, should you decide to look at it (I have based and will base the way my characters go around on it). The areas with asterisks added near the names either weren't there in origin or I wasn't sure of their historical position.


	7. Where Galahad puts his foot in his mouth

Isobel kept silent by biting on her lower lip as she watched Jols slather paste over her wounds. The sounds of the fire crackling was the only sound in the room, as the Healer worked on her hands. Even Iseult was quiet, as she watched the process from the top Isobel's shoulder.

Jols had declared her wing "as healed as it can get, from what I can see" and the falcon had been then freed by the trappings that had been keeping her contained. Iseult had then proceeded to do the animal equivalent of stretching her wings and had then perched herself upon Isobel's shoulders, talons digging in her dress and making her wince.

There were no windows in Jol's study, the room they were in, and the door was closed which Isobel figured was why the falcon hadn't already taken flight and was instead overseeing the proceedings like … well, like the predatory bird that Iseult was.

Isobel hoped that Jols was right and that the falcon had healed enough to be able to fly again. Not only because of Tristan, though he did play a part in the why she hoped so, but also because she had somehow become a little attached to the hellion. She refused to think about what would happen to Iseult if she wasn't able to fly anymore, except for swearing to herself that she would permanently take care of the bird on her own if worst came to worst, Tristan be damned.

She kept her thought to herself, though, and reminded herself that Iseult hadn't appeared to have any kind of problem with her wings, when she had stretched them. Her eyes remained on her hands and she kept them still when Jols let them go, once he was done with the paste.

"Tristan has regained consciousness this afternoon. Only for half of an hour, but that's a positive sign. His wounds are healing well, too." The man informed her, as he made his way towards a little crate from which he took two little rolls of bandages. Isobel felt as if a weight had been lifted from her shoulders and breathed in, deeply.

She hadn't thought the knight in danger of losing his life (the knight wasn't supposed to die, not yet at least), but Isobel had seen the volume of the bandages on him and she knew far too well how easy it was to remain crippled in the _now_. The Roman Healers were far better than any of the so-called doctors or medical practitioners that would come in the future centuries, but they weren't miracle-workers and Tristan had been injured something awful. Survival didn't came with a guarantee that the patient would recover completely from his wounds.

"That's good news." She offered, with a tiny smile, as she held her hands still. The man gave her a nod as he started bandaging them, taking care of making the bandage tight but not constricting in a painful way. He had skilled hands, always a good thing in someone who worked surgeries, and practiced too, as made clear by the ease with which he did his job.

"I heard about your … situation." He said, after a moment. His hands didn't stop their work but his eyes turned up, searching hers. Isobel returned his attentive stare with a calm one and gave a little nod, encouraging him to go on.

"What are you planning to do, about it?" Jols queried and there was honest concern in his face. Isobel allowed herself a little grin, warmed and a little pleased by his concern. She had almost forgotten what it meant to have people who cared about what happened to you, Ethelind being the reason she hadn't completely forgot the feeling.

She was also pleased that he had made his question to her, personally. She knew that he could have found out in other ways, listening to the gossip that had informed him in the first place, but true to himself the Healer had cut through the bullshit and gone straight for the source. Another positive check in her mental column for Jols.

"I have already asked Praetor Castus for lessons in how to write, read and do math. I need to learn many things to really be able to look after myself like my family would have done." She explained to him, waiting for him to close the knot of the bandages on her right arm. Flexing her right wrist and the fingers of the right hand she gave him a wider smile as he started bandaging the left one. He was really good at his job and they both knew it.

"He will send you to the priest, Father Claudius. He's the one that teaches the kids, here." It was just information but the way Jols spoke the name of the priest, that said heaps. There was respect, friendliness and approval in the two words. It was reassuring coming from Jols, who clearly disliked far more people and far more easily than he liked anyone.

"I will do my best to learn from him, I'm sure he's a good teacher." She nodded. Learning how to write and read, that wasn't going to be difficult at all since she already knew how to do both. The Romans wrote all in blocks, too, and that made it even easier. What gave her pause was the math of the time, since she had been taught to think and calculate with number that weren't in use in the _now_. Worse than that, Romans didn't used the 0, didn't even had the concept from what she remembered, which was going to be a pain in the ass.

Another reason Arthur Castus's Briton sucked _ass_.

Jols grumbled what sounded like an agreement and wound the strips at the end of the bandage around her arm, before he tied them in a knot to ensure the bandage wouldn't come loose. Iseult moved on Isobel's shoulder, eyes never leaving Jols even as the man drew back and nodded, looking at his work.

He didn't offer anymore words, except for a remainder that she still needed to come in the next day to get checked up. She nodded her compliance and thanked him, which he waved away as he searched for something in one of his chests. He had several of those, of many sizes, that had clearly been used as little storage units for his pastes and herbs.

"Here." He said after a moment, turning towards her what looked like a heavy glow with an excess of leather in the forearm area. The object captured Iseult's interest, evoking an interested screech and a little hopping motion that led to more talon gripping and subsequent wincing from Isobel. Jols shot the falcon a castigating look that the animal completely ignored.

"Give me your left hand." The Healer instructed and Isobel obeyed, understanding dawning on her as the man pushed her hand in the glove, who was too large by a size at least and heavier than what it had looked.

"If the falcon sticks to you, and it may since Tristan isn't going to be around for a few other days, you're only going to get more and more injured unless you use that. I am _not_ going to waste perfectly good paste on you if I can avoid it." Grumbled Jols as he tugged the glove as far as it could go. Iseult screeched again and then tried to open her wings, cuffing Isobel on the head in the process.

"Watch it!" She hissed at the falcon and then flushed at Jols see-what-I-mean look. "_You_ are a _very_ generous man, Jols. I will give you back the glove, once Iseult's owner's health will be improved enough for him to take care of her." She promised and he nodded, giving an hard look to the now over-excited avian as he apparently ignored her compliment, though a twitch of his lips betrayed his pleasure at hearing it.

"Good, now both of you go. I have many things yet to do, before I can go down to the tavern, and I'll like to get a good start on them." He ordered and Isobel smiled at him, nodding even as she turned away, shoulders held stiff to avoid accidentally jostling Iseult from them. She bid the man goodbye as she closed the door behind her, not waiting for an answer since she did understood that he had already done as much when he had dismissed her.

She barely had the time to take a couple of steps before Iseult hopped towards the end of her shoulder. The falcon spread her wings again, though not completely this time, clearly impatient to take flight again.

"Calm down, you can't fly in here!" Isobel reprimanded the falcon, still keeping her shoulders stiff as she accelerated her steps. The sudden change of pace jostled Iseult, eliciting a little screech and making her dug her talons farther into Isobel's dress and shoulder. Biting her lip again to keep a pained sound to come out, the woman squinted her eyes and closed her hands in fists, ignoring the harsh look a passing Healer shot her. It wasn't as if she could muffle the falcon, wasn't it?

The moment she stepped out of the building, Iseult took flight. Her talon dug in her shoulder for an instant and then the weight of the bird was gone, leaving her free to grip at her shoulder with her right hand, suppressing a stream of insult from coming out of her mouth. She still shouted them mentally, though.

Her own grip made her wince and when Isobel looked at her hand, letting her shoulder go, she saw in the light of the torches that blood was staining the bandages on her palm. She stifled the brewing urge to swear out loud and took a deep breath.

"Isobel!" A cheerful voice called her name in greeting from her left and she turned of her foot, finding herself with only a handful steps left between her and the man who had uttered the far too satisfied greeting.

Lancelot.

May God have mercy of her, the man he had quite obviously cleaned up. His clothes were clean, his hair were clean, his skin was clean. There wasn't any nauseating smell to keep her instincts at bay, there was no reason to be disgusted by him.

Isobel took a deep breath and, grasping at straws, reminded to herself that this was Lancelot. He was bound to have some disgusting STD wasn't he?

**-§-break-§-**

Lancelot had given complete attention to Arthur when their Commander had explained to the knights what being a _Sui Iris_ meant. He had listened carefully at the long explanation the half-Roman had given them and took mental notes throughout all of it. Still, Dinadan had put it best.

Isobel was to considered a man in regards of the law. Yes, Arthur had added that she should be treated with the same amount of respect and in the same way a man ought to be treated, while still keeping in mind that she wasn't, in fact, a man and … Lancelot had let him talk and allowed his brain to wander at that point.

Fact was, Lancelot already respected Isobel more than he respected most of the Romans in the Fort. So her status didn't change much for him except for the fact that he now knew that when she was going to decide to join him in his bed, there wasn't going to be anyone able to raise a protest or object to it. She was subjected to her own laws, right? No relatives to come busting his balls, no one with the right to stop them, wasn't that the bottom line? Knowing about her status had just increased tenfold Lancelot's desire to bed and get to know her.

Which was why he had patiently waited for her to come out of the Healing Rooms, paying attention to remain on the sidewalk and away from the mud of the street. He had never been particularly grateful for Roman roads before but now the Roman's obsession with them and their state had come in handy.

The look on Isobel face when she saw him made the scrubbing he had given himself to more than worthy. Her cheeks colored and she pressed her lips against her lower lip, a gesture that made Lancelot harden a little in his breeches. He owed her friend a lot, he decided. His grin stretched as he saw the way she was clearly trying to put herself together, dragging her eyes from the rest of his body up to his face.

Not that he minded the way she was looking at the rest of him, far from it. She was more than welcome to look at him that way, especially if touching followed looking. It wasn't all that different from the way he was looking at her. Her slightly baggy dress had been ripped on the shoulder by the talons of Tristan's falcon and the light from the torches was enough for him to see both blood (he hoped nothing serious) and skin (much more interesting).

Isobel's skin was as pale as the rest of the visible parts of her body were. He wasn't all that surprised, given what he knew and had seen of her and her tendency to keep inside, nor it upset him much. He liked pale women, the contrast of their skin with his own, far darker from his birth and made even more so by all the time he passed outside, working under the sun (or what passed as sun in the rainy hell known as Briton).

"Lancelot." She greeted him, with a nod of her head. Her tone was almost neutral, but the knight wasn't fooled. How could he possibly be fooled into thinking she wasn't interested when she was clearly struggling to keep her eyes on his face? Lancelot smothered a laugh before it could come out and instead gave her a wide smile.

"How are your hands?" He inquired, eyes lowering to see for himself if the bandages had come off or not. They hadn't, at least on her right hand. The left it was difficult to see, since it had been covered by an heavy glove that looked just like one of the gloves Tristan wore.

If Lancelot hadn't known better, hadn't known that Tristan's possessions had been moved back to the other knight's room by Jols, he would have swore it was, in fact, one of those gloves. Dismissing the thought, he raised his eyes back to Isobel's face, waiting for her answer. She was still blushing, making Lancelot feel like a wolf on the point of eating a mouthwatering little lamb.

"They are healing. Jol's paste makes them hurt less too." She answered, right hand coming up to nervously push a lock of hair behind her ear. Most Roman women kept their hair carefully styled or covered with veils, but she was one of those that were content with using a leather tie to bind their hair. Lancelot liked it, it made her look less like a Roman (always a plus for him).

"Jols knows his remedies." He agreed, with a little nod. "Would you like to join me for a drink at the tavern? I have something I need to talk to you about." Which he had, though he had added that bit because he had seen her narrow a little her eyes, clearly rearing up to refuse his invitation.

To be honest, he could have very well waited for Arthur to break the subject of Galahad's intention to measure her skill in unarmed combat for himself. Yet, there were advantages to being the one who broke the news to her, the biggest one being able to spin it to show himself in favorable light.

"Something you need to talk to me about?" She repeated, clearly caught wrong-footed by his addendum. Lancelot nodded and favored her with his most charming smile. He noticed her shiver, clothed as she was in her summer dress, and undid the brooch of his cloak, shrugging it off.

"Yes." He confirmed and closed the distance between them, putting himself at her right and draping his cloak around her shoulders. She allowed him, though she had watched his movements warily, and drew it around herself. Lancelot let her do it, quite satisfied with the success of his move. She was going to be less cold, under his heavy cloak, and every knight at Vanora's tavern was going to take it as a sign to back off, which was a plus.

Lancelot didn't mind sharing a woman, once he was done with her, but he _did_ mind when someone else, no matter who that someone was, stepped in when he had yet to get the woman in question in his bed. Doubly so with Isobel, who wasn't just a bed warmer but someone who intrigued him as well.

"We should go. The night is only going to get colder." He encouraged her, offering a friendly smile and starting to head towards Vanora's tavern. There was another tavern, in the Fort, but Publio Varro's tavern was for legionaries and Romans. Lancelot preferred to avoid it, keeping to his brothers, the Britons and the other non-Roman legionaries of the Fort, all of whom frequented Vanora's place.

Isobel breathed in, deeply enough that he heard her in the relative silence of the night, and then her steps followed his. Lancelot didn't knew where Iseult had gone once she had taken off, but he hoped that the falcon would keep away from the Fort for all the time needed to convince Isobel to join him in his room. It wasn't as if the damn animal hadn't disappeared before, after all, coming back only when Tristan was again out and about.

**-§-break-§-**

Vanora didn't knew much of the laws of Rome. She knew the laws she needed to know, which weren't all that much, and she knew that she had been able to keep her first husband's tavern only because the Commander had said that she could, for which she was always grateful.

Being Briton, born and raised, she had learned only what was strictly necessary to learn about both Romans and how to avoid being coerced by their laws. She had never even dreamed of a woman being able to claim a place between the men as one of them, even less for that claim to be honored. And yet, according to her Bors (who had been the father of her three children and was surely going to be the father of more), that was exactly being a _sui iris_ meant.

A woman who was equal, in rights and opportunities to make herself heard and respected, to the men surrounding her. It was such an absurd concept that Vanora had accused Bors of lying to her, trying to get a raise out of her, because _she_ didn't had any relatives left, didn't she?, and yet she was still a woman between men.

"Because you're a Briton, not a Roman." Percival had replied, Dagonet (freshly out of the Healing Rooms) nodding gravely along as Gaheris and Galahad's faces twisted in a grimace sourer than the one they had already been wearing. Gawain _was_ healing but he hadn't healed _yet_ and Vanora strongly suspected that both knights weren't going to lighten up until that happened (normal, considering that Gawain was Gaheris's brother and how close Gawain and Galahad were).

It didn't bothered her too much, that she wasn't going to be able to claim to be equal to a man. She already had her tavern and the men that came to it knew that they were better off respecting her if they didn't wanted to be forcibly and violently ejected from the tavern by her Bors and his friends. It wasn't as if she _needed_ someone telling her that she was equal to men.

At the same time, she was quite pleased that such a law not only existed but was also put into practice. Good for that Isa woman, to be able to stand her ground without needing the Commander to stand up for her. Vanora was all for women having the right to handle themselves. It wasn't as if any man had even the slightest understanding of how to handle a woman, after all!

The voice had spread like wildfire through the tavern, starting from the recounting the knights had offered both her and the legionaries already present in the tavern when they had come in. It had continued through the gossip the legionaries had spread between themselves by swiftly updating the ones that had later come in, after dismounting from sentinel duty.

It had been the talk of the whole place and that had been before Lancelot (more clean than Vanora had ever seen him be) had come in, in the company of a tall woman that Vanora had never seen before. Nobody had noticed them, not immediately at least, though Vanora had eyed them from her position behind the counter, where she had been spilling the ale for Feidlimid and Luigsech to serve. She tried to keep track of who came in and who went away.

Then Dinadan had noticed them.

The knight had been sitting at one of the tables with Lamorak, Percival, Lucan and Gawain's two remaining brothers, Gareth and Agravaine. Once his eyes caught sight of Lancelot and his companion, he jumped up with a mischievous grin on his face and motioned to them.

"Lancelot! Isobel! Here, with us!" He had called too, drawing attention to the two of them. They had been making their way towards one of the tables in the back (and as such nearest to Vanora's position) but stopped at the friendly-toned shout.

Silence followed his words, as the attention of all the patrons in the bar suddenly centered on the couple. Lancelot scowled at Dinadan, not even bothering to hide his displeasure at the other man's interference. For a moment, the woman's face flickered with something almost akin to fear. Vanora noticed because she was watching her more than Lancelot and felt a little proud of her when the other woman held her head higher and squared her shoulders, offering something that was more grimace then smile to the man that had called her out.

"Dinadan." She answered and then proceeded towards his table, eyes fixed on Dinadan and only him, completely ignoring the rest of the tavern. Good girl, Vanora thought, buckling up and not allowing the men around her to feast on whatever fear she possessed, not allowing those wolves to see her as weak. Lancelot followed her, the dark look he had bestowed upon his brother in arms turning into a smile for the woman when he sat down next to her.

The voices had picked up again, more hushed in volume than they had been before Dinadan's greeting, but the attention remained on the couple and their actions, much to Lancelot carefully-but-not-completely concealed distaste.

"Well, off you two go. Once you're done with the round of the tables see that you take my place here, Fei, and you keep doing your rounds, Luig." She told the two maids, making them snap back at attention and propelling them back into action. She did understand the curiosity, with all the things they had heard being said from table to table, but the ale wasn't going to serve itself and the more talking the patrons did, the more they were going to drink.

From what she was able to observe, as she made her way towards Bors, Dinadan and Lancelot were both introducing their fellow knights to the girl. Vanora had no doubt that everything Dinadan was doing was to rile Lancelot up. It had been this way since she had memory of Lancelot being at the wall, since the days when Dinadan was one of the knights in charge of training the new recruits and Lancelot a mouthy, smartass kid.

To her credit, the girl did seem aware of what was going on. She kept looking between the two of them, keeping nearer to Lancelot than to Dinadan and smiling, in turn, as each of the other knights got introduced to her. There was too much noise for Vanora to heard what was being said but she did get the distinct impression that at least she and Lucan had already met somehow. It was in the way they acknowledged each other, though Lancelot still introduced the two of them.

Her observations ended here, at least for the time being. She had come into Bors's grabbing reach and her lover wasted no time. Before she could realize what had happened she was in his lip, locked in a passionate kiss with him as one of his hands cupped her ass. Vanora let herself be distracted, happily.

**-§-break-§-**

Galahad woke up with a shout, leaping out of the bed he had been laying in and collapsing on the stone pavement of the room he was in (it wasn't granted that it would be his so he didn't thought of it as such). He was drenched, frozen to the bone by the cold water that someone had unceremoniously dumped on him. He was still wearing the clothes of the night before and his head throbbed, with the familiar ache of an hungover. Actually, most of his body throbbed, along with his head. His face throbbed too. He must have gotten into a brawl the night before, though he could be fucked if he remembered anything.

"Get up." Lancelot voice ordered, in a pissed off tone. Galahad turned on his back from the semi-prone position he had ended up into and blinked, trying to ignore the light of the day that was outlining Lancelot's body, standing in the middle of the door.

"Mmgrfh." He replied, not even trying to put into words how much he was hating Lancelot in that fucking moment. Pissed off as he was too, Galahad still dragged himself upright now that he had got his bearings back. Huh. He _was_ in his room (nice novelty from the last few days, that he had found him waking up at the Fort's brothel).

"_You_ ruined _my_ night." Lancelot announced and, sincerely, Galahad didn't gave a fuck about Lancelot's night going down the shit-hole. Not when he was feeling far too clearly the results of whatever brawl he had gotten himself into the night before. He was trying to remember what had happened but he was getting the feeling that his brain didn't wanted him to know, for some reason or the other.

"I _really_ hope you feel as shitty as you look." Lancelot continued, apparently not requiring Galahad's input to hold a conversation. It was more than fine with Galahad, since he wasn't about to open his mouth anytime soon if only because he was fairly sure he would end up retching if he did. Must had been one hell of a night.

"Arthur wants you out of here and in the round table room, in full armor, in ten minutes." The fucking bastard announced in a maliciously satisfied tone that pushed Galahad into glaring at him with pure hatred. Lancelot didn't even bat an eye, the sodding prick, and just smirked evilly at him a few seconds before taking a step back and slamming the door closer, drawing a muffled oath from Galahad, as his head throbbed with renewed force.

Hopefully ten minutes later, though he wasn't really sure since he had no idea what time he had been woken up at, Galahad was in full armor and entering Arthur's studio. He had the distinct impression that every move he made had been observed, having felt eyes on him all the way from the his own room to the stables, but he couldn't care less. The weather had decided to ally himself with Lancelot, resulting in a sunny day like they had rarely seen in the last two months. Fucking weather, fucking Lancelot.

Arthur looked like the stake jammed up in ass had been driven even higher in than it usually was. Fucking Arthur, too. Galahad squinted his eyes and drew up at full height, taking vague note of the fact that most of his brothers were present and that both Gaheris and Gareth had that air of unholy glee that usually preceded something really fucking painful for someone who wasn't the two of them.

"Galahad." Arthur voice was so cold that taking a plunge in the sea at the north would have felt like being back home in the middle of the summer, Galahad noted, warily. Who had he brawled with the previous night? Some officer, maybe one of the centurions? His mind kept drawing blanks and he had to suppress the urge to massage his forehead and eyes.

He kept silent, waiting for Arthur to tell him the reason behind the meeting. The half-Roman didn't, his attention fixed on some rolls of parchment he had in front of him. Silence fell as Galahad took his seat, casting his eye around as he tried to see if any of his brothers knew what was going on.

He felt fairly sure that they did, going by the looks they kept shooting him first and then each other but none of them seemed inclined to enlighten him. There was an undercurrent of amusement, exacted somehow at his expenses. Yes, no doubt about it. It had something to do with whatever brawl he had being part of the night before.

Minutes dragged on, the other knights looking far too pleased with the wait and Arthur keeping his eyes on his parchments, eyes following the lines drawn on them. He gave no sign of talking or even paying any kind of attention to the knights seated around him.

Judging by position of the sun outside, it was afternoon and Galahad didn't had to worry about seeing food any time soon, at least. He had no idea how his stomach would have held up at seeing his brothers eat their lunch but he felt comfortable betting on 'not well'. He had never been able to eat much, when hungover, unlike some of the others. Fucking sewers, when it came to food, the lot of them. Guzzling down anything, anytime.

Idly, Galahad noticed that Bors looked like he had been in the brawl too, judging by the way his nose looked and the circles around his eyes. Before he could try to gather the other knight attention the door opened and one of those fucking _statores_ came in, preceding by a couple of steps a tall woman in a ruined green dress who looked like she had just rolled out of someone's bed.

For a moment he just looked at her, puzzled. Then he noticed the glove in her right hand, the bandages on both of her hands, stained by dried up blood, and the dark cloak folded on her arm and _everything_ rushed back to him.

**-§-break-§-**

Galahad had been already drunk (and on his way to shitfaced) when Dinadan had managed to get to him and Gaheris in his round of 'meet and greet the knights'. It was quite obvious that he was doing it to see how much he could get away with ruining Lancelot's fun while in the presence of the woman Lancelot was currently bedding (he must have been, what with her coming in with his cloak on).

She wasn't much. Galahad had seen far more attractive women, both in his bed and in Lancelot's arms. He couldn't understand what could possibly go through her head to try and claim a place between men, try and claim respect that she hadn't earned in any way that mattered in Galahad's eyes. Luckily he had to respect her like he would have respected any other Roman in the Fort, according to Arthur, which meant nothing at all, according to Galahad.

If Gawain had been there he may have smiled at the woman, acted polite and waited for her to be in some corner on Lancelot's lap to let the table know what he really thought. Gawain wasn't there, though, wasn't he? He was laid down in the infirmary, with stitches on his abdomen, his chest and one of his arms. Galahad wasn't Gawain, he wasn't _nice_ and _polite_ to Romans.

"You don't look like much." He drawled, ale and wine making his voice slur as he looked her up and down. "You don't look like someone who can do much damage and much less like someone who can claim to be on pair of a man. You don't really look like anything at all, not even attract-" He was cut short by Gaheris hand thumping him on the head while the other man apologized for Galahad words to the woman, who looked like she hadn't appreciated Galahad's honesty. Women never appreciated honesty.

Lancelot was looking at him like he wanted to kick him, at the very least, but Galahad gave him no heed and instead downed his tankard, pushing it a little on the table when he put it down. Dinadan looked amused, he noticed, but Dinadan wasn't in the woman's line of sight and he had always had a better sense of humor than Lancelot, who had a stick in his ass who rivaled Arthur's, sometimes.

"You do remember that Arthur asked us to treat her with respect?" Gaheris hissed, or so it seemed to Galahad, in his ear. And hadn't he already decided that he was going to give her the same amount of respect he gave the other Romans? He had never been one for kissing asses, they all knew it!

"Respect? For what? She's shacking up with Lancelot, it's not like she must have much respect for herself left. She'll be lucky if she doesn't ends up with a rash." He answered and had the satisfaction of seeing the woman pale a little, though he didn't really understand why. She was already bedding Lancelot, what was there to pale about?

This time Lancelot _did_ kick him. Two times. Viciously. Fucking son of a bitch, it wasn't anything he hadn't been teased about before and, really, if the woman couldn't stand a little ribbing she was going to have many problems in the world. Especially if she wanted a place between men. Gaheris heaved a put-upon sigh next to him and shook his head, while Dinadan was openly fighting his laugh. Really, Lancelot (and some of the women he had bedded) had heard much, much worse.

"I'm not shacking up with anyone and I can see you know why I should keep not doing it." She answered, quite icily. Stuck up Roman bitch, acting all high and mighty. What the hell was wrong with shacking up with one of them, huh? All like that the Romans, acting like they where the gods gift to humanity when in reality they were nothing worth remembering. Galahad bristled, on behalf of Lancelot and, well, all of the Sarmatians really. After all, it didn't looked like Lancelot was going to do it himself.

"I do?" He answered, in a challenging tone, and barely ducked another thump from Gaheris. "Why shouldn't you? I mean, you're not going to do any better unless you're hoping that claiming to be same as a man will convince the legionaries to fuck your ass, which they probably could have done anyway, even payed you for it. And it's not like -" Galahad turned to signal Fei that he was ready for another tankard of ale "- your family is going to see how low you've fallen, ending up on Lancelot's cock." He added, very well aware of what the Roman families at the Fort thought of him and his brothers. Bunch of stuck up bigots.

The next thing Galahad knew, was pain.

Someone, one of his brothers by the force put into the action, grabbed his hair so hard that he felt tears sprung in his eyes and, immediately after, slammed his head down on the table with enough force that Galahad heard the sound of the hit even with all the chaos going around.

His head slammed down a second time, and was he or the tavern had suddenly gone silent?, and Galahad reacted, slamming his forearm in the stomach of the man holding his head. He wasn't met with hard muscles, though, but with a softer (though still firm) resistance. The hand in his hair released them and Galahad turned, finding himself looking up with tears in his eyes to the woman.

What. The. Hell?

She snarled something that made no sense to Galahad's ears and a moment later he found his face introduce to what was, in fact, an impressive right hook, considering that it had come from a woman. His head snapped back even as he grabbed at her wrist, trying to keep her from hitting him again. Caught by surprise as he was, and uncoordinated because of all the ale and wine he had drunk, he fell down from the bench, down on the floor, dragging her down with him because of the grip on her bandaged wrist.

Somehow, she managed to use the fall at her advantage, driving a knee down in his stomach and putting her weight into it. Fucking crazy bitch, that hurt like hell! She tried to punch him with her other hand, the gloved one, but Galahad grab hold of her other wrist in time to stop her. He tried to speak, completely floored by the speed with which the Roman woman had turned into some kind of Woad, but she headbutted him, hard enough that his head hit the floor making him swore.

Voices were picking up around them, there was the sound of feet rushing and Lancelot was laughing, the absolute _bastard_. He and Dinadan and a few others, bastards the whole lot of them.

Someone's arms encircled her waist and Galahad let her wrists go, allowing Bors to drag her away from him. Thank the gods, because he wasn't about to go fight a Roman woman but it wasn't as if he could have let her keep attacking him. The _cunt_ got in a last shot, though, before Dagonet could completely lift her off him, as her foot connected with his groin, bringing tears in his eyes as shocked and sympathetic shouts arose all around.

He curled on himself and lost sight of her, though he heard an oath coming from Bors, and gritted his teeth, his body paralyzed by the pain he was in.

**-§-break-§-**

Arthur Castus's version of a drunk tank didn't sucked as much ass as his Briton, surprisingly. It was clean, not as cold as it could have been, the meals were on time and, once someone's punishment for the behavior displayed under the influence of alcohol had been decided, the prisoners were taken to hear their sentence and released without needing a bail to be posted for them.

Isobel had even been allowed visitors, to her great surprise. The who those visitors had turned out to be had been another surprise. Well, not Ethelind. She had expected Ethelind to turn up at some point and she hadn't been disappointed, since her friend had turned up just a little after the _ientaculum_ and had immediately chided her for not sharing the news about her _sui iris _status (which, according to Ethelind, was a good thing but, realistically, didn't change much in Isobel's life, which wasn't untrue).

Apparently, in Ethelind's book, going out to the tavern and ending up in a brawl was a good thing, healthy behavior and a show of finally starting to liven up all rolled into one. Isobel had no doubts that Ethelind's brother wasn't going to think the same, but she had been secretly pleased by the aplomb Ethelind had showed to the fact that they were talking with bars between them instead of the kitchen table.

Though Isobel could have done without her friend's squeals about the fact that she had slept wrapped up in Lancelot's cloak. Apparently, the cloak had been patched up enough times to have become instantly recognizable as being a property of the Sarmatian. It also had his initials sewn into it, something that Isobel had failed to noticed. Goddamned stupid charming knight.

The visitors that had caught her by surprise had been the ones that had followed, starting with Burkhard. The man was the attendant of one of the centurions of the Fort, or so he informed her, and was a massive Gaul that towered over hear. He was ripped much like she imagined a viking would have probably been. He looked like a Viking, to Isobel's eyes, with his clear eyes and long beard and hair. She knew better than insulting him by telling him as much, though.

According to him he had been in the tavern the previous knight and wanted to see her in the light of the day, since she had regaled him with one of the best spectacles he had the opportunity to see in his whole life. He had ordered her, in a voice that broke no other result than complete compliance, to roll up her sleeves and show him the muscles in her arms.

He had also studied her hands, asking about the bandages (which had become bloodied when her wounds had opened during the brawl) and nodding when she had mentioned Iseult. He had a scar of his own, courtesy of the falcon, though his was near his left eye (and looked far worse than Isobel's own). Apparently the falcon had mistaken a training exercise as an attack on her owner and got involved. Isobel thought that rather sounded like the little hellion.

Burkhard hadn't lingered much, nodding his goodbye to her and promising her a tankard of ale the next time they both found themselves at Vanora's tavern at the same time. He didn't seemed to care much for what the Roman law told about her. At least not as much as he cared for the fact that she had been able to make Galahad suffer (something about "whiny bitches" and "ungrateful little Sarmatians fuckers who had it easy").

After him the barrack's head cook, Drusus, had come to see how she was. He had reprimanded her, harshly too, reminding her that she had work to do for him and that she couldn't afford to be dragged into the knight's squabbles. She was a Roman and Romans should stick with their own people or, at least, the civilized ones like the local Britons that worked for them. It wasn't the first time that Isobel had heard the man's bigoted spiel and she knew that she was better off nodding meekly than trying to do anything about it. Bigots would be bigoted.

He had also reminded her that she had been doing good, keeping out of the knights way and keeping her mind concentrated on what was important (working and taking care of herself) and told her he hoped she would continue in that vein (somehow, Isobel rather doubted it). He had, obviously, been informed of her status of a sui iris but, according to him, that just meant that if she wanted to claim it she was going to have to be prepared to work the same as any man his kitchen (which didn't bother Isobel much, since she still had to see one of the man try his hand at making butter and there wasn't much to do in the kitchen that was harder than that).

Drusus had then proceeded to inform her that her pay for the day was going to get docked from the total she got payed at the end of the month and that he expected her to show up the next morning, freshly rested and ready to work as hard as ever. Since it wasn't like she could fault him on that one, Isobel had meekly nodded again and satisfied herself with thinking a few choice words as she smiled at him and promised compliance.

A few hours passed, in which Isobel had first slept and then entertained herself by singing Holding Out For a Hero inside her own head and snickering softly at the lyrics (yeah, as if). It was something she occasionally did, try to remember her favorite songs to keep them fresh in her memory, now that she had no way to ever listen to them again).

Of all people, her next visitors turned out to be Augusta Minor, along with a group of other Roman women. There was Augusta and her sister Augusta Major, their friend Licinia, Claudia, Flavia and a couple of other women (mothers, Isobel supposed) answering to the names of Flavia (another one) and Justinia. The girls, all of them between fifteen and nineteen years of age, had offered support and sympathy for what they had called 'an harrowing and terrible experience' in which she had been 'forced to take the defense of her family honor in her own hands'.

Isobel had kindly refrained from laughing in their faces and played along, explaining about her past experiences and how she had come to know how to defend both herself and her family honor, with the approval of her family obviously. The two matrons, who had been lurking in the background looking quite frosty, had thawed at that, becoming more chatty once they were reassured that poor little Isabella was nothing if a model citizen, who had really been forced to react to grievous and vulgar offenses made by what they called "a barbarian pig".

Isobel hadn't bothered correcting them (her current opinion of Galahad was basically lying in the gutter) and had caught the occasion to express her will to submit to whatever kind of punishment the authorities were going to decide to bestow upon her for causing such a public disturbance. She had no regret for her actions in restoring her family honor, she explained to the gaggle of women, but she regretted the way the situation had rapidly become uncontrollable and had turned in such an appalling brawl.

The matrons had nodded, clearly impressed by her acceptance of the consequences of her ill-thought actions and had reassured her that they were going to talk to their husbands and see that the circumstance of both her status and the whole scene were taken in the right consideration. Apparently Justinia, the mother of Licinia, was the wife of one of the centurions of the Fort, or Castrum as they called it. That explained how they have come to know of the situation, given how fast gossip did travel into the military.

It was with that reassurance, and an invitation to attend Licinia's wedding, that the women had left her, to go back to their houses and the work that expected them. Isobel had agreed immediately to the invite, seeing as it was a good way to mesh back into the same society she should have been trying to fit in since the beginning. On top of that, weddings were always good fun, what with the heaps of food and the general happy atmosphere.

The thought of how much difference was going to be between a Roman wedding and the ones of the _then_ kept Isobel's mind distracted until the lunch came in, letting her know that it was 11 am. The small lunch tided her over until the _prandium_ rolled around and then she was back to singing lyrics in her heads, maybe humming them a little under her breath too (not that she would admit to it).

She had finished re-braiding her hair and was trying to remember the last verse of Welcome to the Jungle when the legionaries in charge of the prisoners let through one of the _statores_ that Isobel had gotten used to see standing guard at the Praetorium, were she slept. The man acknowledged her with a nod of his head and then gave order to open her door.

Isobel stood and flattened her ruined dress (there were rips on the shoulder from Iseult's talons and it hadn't come out of the brawl looking any better), folding Lancelot's cloak on her arm and taking the glove Jols had given her in her right hand as she waited for the legionary with the keys to do as he had been ordered. Since they had been nothing but professional with her (even taking her to a latrine when she had needed it), she thanked him and his colleague for taking care of her, offering a smile as she lined behind the _statores_ and followed him outside of the prison block and out into the street.

The prison block was in the Retentura, in front of the stables and not too far from Vanora's tavern and she saw Vanora herself (she had seen the woman locked in a passionate embrace with her lover Bors the night before) looking at her. Vanora gave her a nod and half a smile that Isobel answered with one of her own, happy to know that Ethelind wasn't the only one who approved of what had happened the night before, especially since Vanora could have sided with Galahad if only because he was a 'brother' to her own man.

Vanora wasn't the only one looking. There was a gaggle of children that followed her and the _statores_ at a little distance and Isobel was quite aware of the looks the passing soldiers threw at her, amused and appraising in similar parts (though there was the odd leering glance). She refused to acknowledge them and kept her head straight and her gaze on the _statores_ back.

The man led her to the Praetorium and then inside it, through the hallway and to a room that she recognized as one of those were the serving maids went to deliver the food when the knights ate in the building. She had heard about it, from them. The room with the Round Table in it, around which all the knights and Arthur sat, as equals.

A part of her brain screamed itself silly because, oh God, she was about to see the ROUND TABLE. The Round Table with Arthur and his knights sat around it and yes, she was going in to hear what Arthur had decided about her but this was the _Round Table_. Isobel had to take a deep breath to steady herself and she clutched her right hand around the heavy glove as she closed the left one in a fist and then relaxed it again.

Oh God, the _Round Table_.

She took another deep breath and then followed the _statores_ inside the room.

**-§-break-§-**

**Author Note**

HAPPY NEW YEAR FROM ITALY FOLKS!

We have a say, in Italy, that goes "What you do during New Years day, you do all year". Though that doesn't mean daily updates (I can't turn out chapters that fast) lets hope that RL will allow me to post consistently through the whole year ;)

As always, a huge thank you to **~KyuubyPaw**, who keeps acting as my beta and my ever faithful booster of confidence! You are the best girl!

God people, you made my end of the year fucking awesome what with all the reviews and alerts that popped up after the last chapter! You are all incredible, wonderful people, and I'm honored to be writing a story that successfully engages you all!

And you get a slightly longer chapter this time (12 pages in my Open Office), plus a nice group of new Historical Notes (that along with my rambling and answers to your awesome reviews add four pages and a smattering of lines to the total of the document). YAY!

**e1311**: Thanks a lot for the Story Alert, I'm really happy you decided my story was worth following!

**sisa**: Thank you very much! I'm happy you're finding the story engaging and, as you can see, I updated ;)

**Kristall**: First of all thanks for putting me both in your Alerts and your Favorites, it was really great on your part! I'm happy you liked Iseult's point of view, it may be featured again in the future (I have ideas about both the falcon and her POV). And I hear you on the historical notes and being a geek about "dead" cultures. As you can see, you get more of those on the bottom ;)

**DGfleetfox**: God, your review was just _spectacular_. I loved every single bit of it and it made me blush like a little schoolgirl, it was so awesome! I am in fact treating this story like a novel or a story I would like to see published. It's the way I always treat the pieces I write, long or short, because I always search for good quality in my reading and I strive to give others the same thing I search for and desire to see. I wouldn't publish anything I don't think would be worth my time reading and I find that keeping that in mind is a good way to motivate myself to give my best. Fanfiction, to me, doesn't mean "make it up and wave away what doesn't add up" and I'm happy to see that you have a similar frame of mind. I hadn't ever heard about the Lost in Austen miniseries but I'm going to hunt it down, it sounds really interesting (though I think it's a shame the girl didn't tried to fit in, since that should be the most logical course of action not to draw unwanted attention and problems she doesn't on herself). About tv miniseries, I can't write anything I can't "see". With that I mean that when I write something, I need to know in my mind how the settings the story takes place look, how the characters look, how they dress and even move. I may not mention it until it comes into play (I don't believe in excessive descriptions) but I have to know it all. I have in mind how each one of the characters from the movie behaved, acted, moved, looked and I know the same of all of my original characters. I've never tried my hand at writing tv scripts but I have thought about it. Sadly, the state of italian television is even worse than the UK and USA one and it's also a world rifle with corruption and favoritism at the highest levels so I have never bothered with it. I would love for something of mine to become a tv miniseries but I don't have too much faith into it (I'm more into trying to write novels, actually). Also, I rather prefer miniseries to other mediums. Serials get stretched to fit season after season and the movies get cramped by time and the scripts can get mutilated to fit into the requirements of the movie. You will see how I will change things around, when we will get at the movie events, to fit those events in a more historically faithful recounting of them, since the movie botched a lot of things [strategy included but I will not get into _that_ now. I will rant enough about it in the future, believe me ;)]. Miniseries are the best method of adapting written fiction to the screen, in my personal opinion, since they allow for the space needed to recount the story and do a study of the characters without stretching it too far (and you can always do a sequel miniseries if you have more to say!). I put out this chapter as soon as I was able to (just the time to finish writing the chapter, having it checked and adding the notes) and I hope you have enjoyed it! I'm not really one for chapter teasers because I usually write the chapter out, get it checked and then publish it so you don't have to wait too much! You were more than encouraging, your review made my whole day brighten up and it was the most welcome! As you can see I'm a rambler too so rambling is always welcome ;)!

**Baroque**: While longer reviews are always welcome, even dropping a note like you did is always appreciated! Yes, Tristan is awake! He did not feature in this chapter, but it was important for him to wake up to start easing him in the story (and starting him in his path to recovery). As you can see Isobel's status as a _sui iris_ has allowed her leeway in the eyes of some people while it hasn't meant much in the eyes of others (and in Drusus cases it becomes a neat excuse to try and work her more and harder). I'm going to further explore the fallout from all the events in play in the following chapters, so you will hear more about how the people around her react to it.

**Author ramblings**

Isobel, goddammit, stop getting into fights! She's going to drive me mad (though, I must say, Galahad was spoiling for a fight and gave her a perfect opening what with his taking his eyes off her).

As you can see, Galahad was drunk, didn't expected it and all the same he was able to block her hands and stop her from getting more punches in (obviously he's stronger than her, so she wasn't able to free herself from his grasp).

Poor Bors and his broken nose *snickers*. A good headbutt given to someone behind you can do some pretty damage and we all already know about Isobel's issues with being physically touched from behind with no warning. Vanora didn't approve of the headbutt but she did approve of Isobel standing her ground.

I hope you liked the cut into narration from night to day without letting you all immediately know about what had happened the night before! I wanted you to either suspect or hope for Isobel to be the one who had made him suffer. If you are curious about what happened between Galahad curling on the floor and Isobel ending in prison, well … that will be revealed next chapter!

We continue to see the consequences of Isobel claiming _sui iris_ status and how they affect both everyone in the community that the Fort is and their opinions of Isobel and her actions.

Lancelot's self-imposed quest of bedding Isobel is still on-going (he was quite pissed off with Galahad, considering he had even cleaned himself all up for what, in the end, amounted to nothing). Also he didn't appreciated Galahad's referral to STDs (though I think we all know why Isobel paled at the mention of a rash on _her_) since it made his 'quest' even more difficult.

No Tristan in this chapter, but there was quite a lot going on and Iseult is finally better! I searched on the web for the time of recovery for birds with broken wings and it usually is of just some days, because they have a different bone structure than hours (and they also have hollow bones, which means that there's less to heal). She will come back pretty soon (and the glove will come in handy), so don't worry about her. She's somewhere outside gorging onto some bunny's meat ;)

**Historical Notes**

_Numbers and math._

The numerical system we use nowadays is the one we learned to use from the Arabs, which spread during the Medieval time period and came as a big change. For centuries, those who received such an education had relied on Roman numbers and it was with difficulty that students learned how to adapt not only to numbers completely different from the ones they already knew but to the use of the 0, who had never been part of the Roman numbers.

It was a novel concept, that of using a number to indicate the absence of a result (or to shorten longer numbers by simply adding it to the end of the number). Though the symbol 0 existed in roman times, it was used (and read) as a word, the word being "_nulla_". In modern Italian that word means "nothing", which is the same meaning the Romans gave to it.

_Iseult wanting to fly inside the Valetudinarium (and Roman architecture)._

Though for visual reference a google search may suffice, I've visited both Aquileia (one of the main Roman archeological sites in Italy) and Pompeii (perks of being an Italian living in Italy, I'm nearer to this kind of historical sites) and seen my share of Roman houses and buildings (especially in Aquileia, to which I've been at least six to eight times, since I live at a distance of just a couple of hours by car from it). I've also been in Rome but the other two cities are more interesting to see how ancient Romans lived.

This is why I can tell not only from theory but also from experience, that the ancient Romans liked to have space to move in. They didn't had many corridors or hallways (though some places had them, especially towards the end of the Empire) and preferred an architecture consisting of room connected one to another. Their hallways (which could be found in public buildings but not in the houses, who all stuck to the "interconnected rooms" architecture) were wide enough for two to four people to walk in side by side (depending on the building) and there was space over one's head since they either had high ceilings or arched hallways (though those were more common in the underground).

This allowed Iseult all the space to fly in, had Isobel allowed her to do as much.

_Street lighting._

Romans usually relied on oil lamps to light the outside of buildings, houses or the streets. In places like the Wall of Hadrian, though, oil was in less supply than Italy so torches were used as a substitute for oil lamps, which were more of a luxury than a commodity and were limited to personal use from those who could afford it.

_General lighting._

Other forms of lighting were candles (not really in Italy, were oil was abundant but in the Northern parts of Europe and in Britain they were widely used by the time of the fall of the Roman Empire). Those candles weren't like the ones we use nowadays, as in they were made of tallow, otherwise known as animal fat. Though they did their work, the illumination they provided was far less in power and far less in quality than the one coming from wax candles (which were rarer and valuable).

Candles were also used to keep track of time in spaces where you couldn't use sundials. To do so, the candles used to this end had even spaced signs put on their bodies, each sign indicating an hour of time had passed. By counting how many signs remained on a candle once it was lit, people were able to keep track of the passage of time when they had no other ways to do as much.

_Roman roads._

The Romans built their whole empire on roads and how well kept they were, offering them fast and clear ways of communication between the various parts of their Empire.

There were various types of road. In our case, the case of a Fort built to be maintained in the course of the years (instead of a Fort built for a temporary stay, that was build the same way but only with wood, no stone, and could be dismounted in a day and half tops) the roads inside the Fort should have been made the same way the streets in Pompeii were made.

That means, really high sidewalks that came almost at knee length that kept the main road and the mud in it separated from the part of pavement that people walked on. To allow people to cross the road, huge square blocks of stone were put in the middle of the road at even intervals. People were supposed to step on them to get from one side to another. This way, the people didn't step in the mud, horse shit and various other disgusting things you could find on the ground, you had two venues of traffic for carriages to pass unobstructed and the horses to come through, one for each side.

Streets were also constructed with the outlook described as "mule's back" which means that the road was built like a little arch, so that rain would slip away from the center and down the sides, into the little holes that led to the sewers. This way the rain swept away all the garbage.

_Original characters names._

I will use names that, from what I can gather, could have existed at the time. The Roman characters will get late roman names, the Briton characters (like the two barmaids that work for Vanora) will have celtic names, the Woads (when they will come into play) will have Pictish names since they _are_ the population we now call Picts, the Saxons characters will have Anglo-Saxon or Viking names (which, to me, means names coming mostly Norwegian and bordering countries) and so on, so forth. The knights will get names from the Arthurian's Legends.

_Writing materials._

Romans used parchments to write on, at least for official orders or documents that were meant to be preserved and / or sent on long travels (even though the parchment wasn't waterproof, which required more precautions to be taken in order to guarantee his preservation). They did not had any form of modern ink but used a black substance known as Atramentum Scriptorium (Atramentum meaning a jet black substance and Scriptorium underlining what it was used for) that was basically composed of iron salt and tannic acid (often extracted from oak bark) that was greyish-black when diluted in water but an intense and lustrous dark when diluted with linseed oil (which means that Arthur could be using both kinds, since flax can grow in England, but will probably be using mostly the diluted with water kind, since flax is a difficult plant to grow in England's climate).

If they wanted to teach someone or to take temporary notes that could be easily erased they used wax tablets, who were wooden frames with rectangular depressions in the middle that were filled with wax. They came with a pointed stylus (to write) and a razor-like spatula (which was used to erase what had been written). The wax was cold, and the stylus had to be pressed on it to draw the signs. To erase them, the tablet was to be warmed up on a flame until the wax became soft enough to be reshaped by the spatula.

Tablets often came in a set composed by more tablets linked together through their wooden frames by either metal or string links. They could come in a two tablets format (with only one side each of the two tablets filled with wax), that could be closed like a notebook, or in bigger formats that went up to five or six tablets (with the middle ones having both sides of the tablet filled with wax).

_Eating in Ancient Rome._

Romans ate four meals in a day, by the time we are in. Those meals were structured to follow the daily rhythms of the Roman life.

The _ientaculum_ was their version of breakfast and was served around the time dawn came up. A small lunch was prepared and served around 11 am, followed by a second breakfast known as _prandium_ at noon. In the evening they consumed the _cena_ (which still is the italian word for "dinner") which was their dinner and the main meal of the day.

Feet and hands were washed before the _cena_. The food would be taken with the fingertips and two kinds of spoons, the larger _ligula_ and the smaller _cochlear_ with a needle-thin grip, which was used as a prong when eating snails and molluscs, in practice substituting for the fork as we know it.

At the table, larger pieces would be cut up to be served on smaller plates. After each course the fingers were washed again and napkins (mappae) were customary to wipe one's mouth. Guests could also bring their own mappae to take home the leftovers from the meal or small gifts (the apophoreta). Everything that could not be eaten (e.g. bones and shells) was thrown onto the floor, from where it was swept away by a slave or a servant (depending on the household).

More about the kind of foods the Romans ate will be coming in the next chapters (both in-chapter, since Isobel do work in the kitchen, and in the Historical Notes).

_Latin terms._

I haven't used any new ones except for the ones about the meals (whom I've just explained) and _statores_ but that one you can find on the Map I put in my profile and they are the guards of the Praetorium, like Isobel herself said.


	8. Where consequences are had

Gaheris had only once in his life, before the previous night, encountered a woman as skilled in unarmed fighting than the Roman who had tried, with sound reason mind you, to rearrange Galahad's features the night before.

She had took advantage of his brother distraction (and of the whole table's astonishment, since no one had expected such a reaction out of any kind of woman, less of all a Roman, no matter what Lucan and Lancelot had claimed) and pounded his face on the table with the ease of someone who wasn't new to the action. She had then proceeded to land a heavy punch, which she had thrown with clear knowledge of how to land a hit that really hurt, and had taken advantage of the fall Galahad had dragged her into to get in a quite effective strike to Galahad's stomach.

When her attempts at punching him had failed she had headbutted him (Gaheris was almost sure he had saw Lucan wince with what looked like sympathy at Galahad's plight) and when she was been pried away she had managed to land an harsh kick in the boy's balls (Gaheris was quite sure that most of the men looking had cringed, no matter if they were Sarmatians or legionaries).

Then, when Bors had successfully pried her away she had headbutted Bors too and had turned into a local version of a _gladiatrix_ Gaheris had once saw in Londinum, back when he had arrived in the blasted piece of land called Briton. Though he hadn't had the occasion to watch any of the official matches of the woman, the group of children had casually come upon what one of the soldiers accompanying them had identified as a 'street match' to determine if the woman was fit or not to play in the city games.

The _gladiatrix_ had been dressed like a man, and had screamed more, but the way the girl had reacted to being grabbed from behind had still evoked the fighter from Gaheris's memories. Even after Bors had put her down, at Lancelot harsh urging, the woman had kept her guard up, slipping in what had only looked like a loose position.

Lancelot hadn't tried to touch her (the man _had_ a working brain) but one of the legionaries had instead reached out to her, probably to congratulate her for not only attacking his brother but actually landing some pretty good hits on him. Gaheris had seen the whole scene, since Gareth and Agravaine had already busied themselves by lifting the still cringing Galahad's up and he wasn't needed to help.

The legionary had moved from a position that was two feet on her left and just out of her sight, reaching out to her his arm and, the moment the movement had entered her field of vision, she had turned (fucking fast) towards him, batting his arm away and grabbing his neck, hauling him towards not only her body but her knee too. The legionary, who had been quite drunk (like most of his comrades had been too), had stumbled right into her knee and found himself doubled up from the pain of the hit, retching out on the floor. One of his friends had made to grab her, shouting angrily something that Gaheris hadn't caught, and Lancelot had put himself between them, allowing her time to back away and throwing a punch of his own to the legionary.

Which had been the signal the whole tavern had seemed to be waiting for. In a matter of seconds, the situation had degenerated in an all-out brawl of legionaries against knights. The punched man's friends had tried to jump Lancelot, naturally. Percival and Lamorak had immediately went to lend a hand to their brother, as it was to be expected, and more legionaries had gotten himself involved trying to keep them off, which had led to a general involvement of the rest of his brothers. Gaheris would have helped too but Agravaine was shouting his name and an order to help him drag Galahad's ass out of there, since Gareth had deserted them to thrown himself in the mess.

Muttering an oath, Gaheris had complied and that was the extension of his involvement in the nights events. When he and Agravaine had managed to drop Galahad's ass in his room and come back, the _statores_ were already getting ready to intervene and drag off the fighters that hadn't manage to scuttle away from the back of the bar.

It always ended up the same ways with brawls: if you weren't caught in it, it was as if you hadn't been in it, no matter how you looked the following day. Those who were caught, were deferred to their Commanders who either devised some punishment on their own or deferred to the Fort's Military Tribunal. In the case civilians ended up being involved, they were deferred to Arthur's judgment and kept in the prison cells until the Commander had heard all the reports.

Only once Arthur had heard about what had happened from his knights, if they were there (which happened more often than not) and they hadn't been put in a cell themselves (which they managed to avoid more often than what one might have thought), the _statores_ and the centurions of the legionaries involved (who were tasked with referring what their men had told them) the civilians were brought to him to be told their punishment for their misconduct.

Gaheris had been summoned by Arthur, via Lancelot, just after the _ientaculum_, like all of his brothers but for Galahad (who was clearly in deep shit), Tristan and Gawain (who were both still in the Healing Rooms and in no shape to be there). That meant that he had been able to hear the reports of both _statores_ and centurions and had, along with the rest of his brothers, gotten the opportunity to piece up what had happened after he had left.

Apparently, the woman had tried to leave the tavern but had been stopped in doing so by one of the friends of the legionary she had kneed. Dinadan had gotten involved, if only because he wasn't sure what the man wanted to do with the girl (taking her to safety, his centurion had claimed but Gaheris rather doubted it and had made his opinion known by snorting, like many of his brothers). She had reacted to the legionary with what Dinadan had termed as a "strange but powerful kick aimed at his knee" and had then took advantage of the knight's interference to slip under a table.

Allegedly, she had remained there until the table had been broken by Dagonet and one of the legionaries. Burkhard, had muttered Dagonet to Bors who had proceeded to let the whole table know by virtue of muttering it to Agravaine, that had muttered it to Gareth, who had passed on word to Lamorak and so on, so forth. Gaheris had few doubts about how little of the table must have been left standing with the combined weight of the two men crashing on it. It appeared that the woman, Isobel, had managed to get herself out of it in time to avoid any permanent damage, luckily.

She had again attempted to leave the tavern, only to have her arm grabbed by Lancelot (who had been trying to find her since the moment he had shaken off the legionaries he had been engaged with). Expecting a violent reaction out of her, by that point, he had managed not only to duck her incoming elbow but also her following punch. He would have taken her out from the back, and to the safety of his bed knowing Lancelot, had he not been thrown to the floor by the sudden impact of a legionary (thrown by Bors, they had surmised after a little brainstorming about who had been doing what by then) with his back.

All three of them had tumbled to the floor and Lancelot's grip had been broken. The woman had grabbed the occasion and darted toward the exit... and right into the arms of one of the _statores_ who had been watching the brawl from outside while they waited for the fighters to come out. The _statores_ had subdued her, though one had gotten hit by a rather nasty kick to his shin before they had managed to make her understand who they were and what they were doing (at which point, apparently, she had become as meek and gentle as a little lamb).

One of them had dragged her off to the nearby prison, while the others "waited for the right moment to intervene". Gaheris had took that to mean that they had debated who had gone in the last time and who had not, to see who was going to go bust heads and who had to remain waiting for those who tried to escape (he had seen them do as much from outside, along with Agravaine, so he knew he was right on that).

In all this, Vanora and her two maids had been safely ensconced behind the counter the whole time the brawl had been going on, used as they were to something like that happening at least once every two weeks, at least. They had taken refuge as the brawl was starting and hadn't come out until the _statores_ had carted away the more rowdy (and drunk) of the brawlers.

Arthur's face, who had been already stony when he had heard what Galahad had said to the woman, had steadily grown steelier as the reports shed light on the rest of the events of the previous night. By the time the last bits of the story had rolled around (and Lancelot had been sent to collect Galahad while a _statores_ had been deployed to get a hold of their local _gladiatrix_) he had looked as friendly as a Saxon, to put it mildly.

Gaheris couldn't help finding it hilarious, since he wasn't the one that was going to be yelled at nor punished for his involvement with the whole thing (especially since his involvement had been in trying to curb Galahad first and then dragging him out later). Gareth and Agravaine seemed as delighted as he felt and Dinadan was clearly relishing what was to come.

Dagonet, who had been bitched at by Jols for getting into a brawl so soon when he had gone to get the stitches on his chest re-done (they had been pulled during the fight, as it was to be expected), was as silent as ever but it was quote obvious that both he and Bors were going to enjoy seeing Galahad being bitched out by Arthur. It was, indeed, the general mood around the round table they sat at, though no one had being able to match the malicious glee Lancelot (who had been muttering about buckets of water when he had left the room) had displayed.

Gaheris didn't begrudged him for it. He would have gone with a bucket of water mixed with piss, if he had been in his place. To wash and scrub oneself to complete, uncomfortable cleanliness only to see one's efforts go waste because of Galahad's mouth? Yeah, a bucket of water was far too mild of a wake-up (and a clear sign that Arthur had something particularly heinous in mind if Lancelot wasn't resorting to exacting vengeance by himself).

**-§-break-§-**

Arthur honestly had no idea what to make of the situation.

One one hand, Isabella Antonia was a quiet member of the community who did her share of double work diligently (he had asked after her, the night before, concerned with getting a few more informations on her to go on) and didn't give any reason to complain to the people she worked for. On the other hand she couldn't be left around his knights without attacking them. Whether or not those attacks were justified (which they were) the fact still remained that only Dinadan had managed to stay in her company for a protracted period of time without getting kneed or punched or headbutted.

According to Dinadan, and Lancelot too but Arthur had learned to take Lancelot's opinion of women with a grain of salt, the girl wasn't as bigoted as most of the Romans the Praetor dealt with at the Castrum. Actually, she hadn't struck Dinadan as bigoted at all, quite pleasant instead and really dedicated at taking care of Tristan's falcon, while she had been in charge of it.

It wasn't as if he didn't have proof that the girl had reacted badly to any stranger attempting to touch her from behind, because he had. He was reasonably certain that she was simply reacting the way her master had taught her to what her mind perceived as aggression. He was also impressed by the way she had handled herself the night before, not pursuing the brawl that had broke out but instead trying to escape it and immediately submitting to the _statores_ authority, once they had managed to identify themselves.

To be honest, Arthur was kind of surprised (to the point of being a little impressed with her self-control) that she hadn't tried to brain Galahad sooner than she had, considering what had been coming out of the boy's mouth. The fact that she had tried to remain civil when confronted with such a behavior was another point in her favor.

Still, he couldn't allow a citizen, especially a woman in the position she was in, leeway in attacking one of his knights, no matter how much the attack had been warranted. This wasn't a city in which he was just a representative of the military part of the community. This was a Castrum, a military fort subjected to military law.

Civilians were tolerated and listened to for three reasons. First, because they were the families of the older legionaries. Second, because they allowed a smoother trade of goods with both the bigger cities and the nearby villages. Third, because they boosted the number of hands that helped in the menial works. He wasn't in the position to tolerate a civilian taking the right to punish in her own hands, even though he silently approved of the lesson she had inflicted on Galahad.

It was a fine political line, the one Arthur was forced to walk at the moment. To avoid making Isobel the exception that could, in future, inspire others he was forced to make her into an example. At the same time, he had also to make clear where he stood on the position of her status and what that status actually meant on a practical level.

By virtue of being a _sui iris_, she was expected to have the same rights of a man. After a long internal debate, Arthur had decided that this meant that she was going to be considered responsible for her actions in the same way, depriving her of the defenses that came with being a woman. He had also decided to seize the occasion and lay down some ground rules and duties for her to abide to. One couldn't have the jug full and the wife drunk, after all. Freedom was costly for all of them.

**-§-break-§-**

It only took Agrippa Seius the time to get from the Praetorium to the _statores_ barracks for the news to start spreading like fire through the Castrum.

Praetor Castus had recognized his knight's fault for insulting both Isabella Antonia and her family and made the knight apologize, before he assigned the arrogant beast to a full week of menial tasks around the Castrum. The man was also going to be in charge of the security and happiness of the sons of the Senatores that were coming in two weeks.

The arrival of the Senatores wasn't news. They were only passing through to collect their escort before they proceeded in the territory between Hadrian's Wall and Antonino's Wall to visit one of the Patricians living in it. It was news that the Senatores were going to entrust their children's safety to Praetor Castus.

Agrippa (who had escorted the Antonia woman to the Praetorium and had been allowed to remain in the room) eagerly recounted how Praetor Castus had announced that the Senatores had heard about the woad's recently increased presence and had decided that it would be for the best for them to be in the safety of the Castrum's walls. At which point, Praetor Castus had just looked up from the document he had been examining and he had fixed his eyes on the Sarmatian that had sparked the brawl and let the implications sink in, in between the snickers of the other knights. Even the Antonia woman had been repressing a smile, Agrippa swore to the other _statores_ and to the young serving girl that "just happened to be there to drop off their stitched tunics", according to the girl herself.

Regarding the Antonia woman, Praetor Castus had went to previously unheard of measures in devising a punishment that was fit for her situation and laid down the law on how things were going to be for her from now on. Agrippa, who knew how to tell a story, took a dramatic pause here, waiting to be pressed for details for reveal what his superior officer had decided.

Praetor Castus had fined her, ordering that a cut of her monthly pay was to be given to Vanora until all the damages done to the tavern and the costs for new tables had been paid off. Normally, soldiers were tasked with rebuilding the items, but this wasn't feasible with the woman, who had no carpentry experience at all. That, though, had just been the beginning.

When the woman had voiced her compliance to the fine, the Praetor had told her that he had thought about her requests to be educated in writing and reading and that he had decided to recognize her status as a _sui iris_ by having her taught as any Roman boy would have been at the Castrum. Which meant that she was going to have to give up her job in the laundry, though she could keep helping with the stitching of clothes in her free time if she wanted to keep earning a little extra, and instead focus her time in her education.

She was going to be taught how to read and write, as she had asked, but she was also going to learn a trade like all the young boys at the Wall did. She was going to be taught how to ride a horse, guide a cart, survive in the forest and, should she decide it was necessary, even to _fight_. The last one, though, wasn't for free. If she wanted to learn fighting, she was going to have to trade for it, by either offering something the teacher wanted or by teaching her style of unarmed fighting to those who desired to trade their knowledge in exchange for hers. She wasn't going to get trained like a soldier, since she was just a civilian woman, but she was going to have permission to seek physical training if she desired so.

"It seems to me that the Praetor wants her to reconsider the _sui iris_ status and just marry off." Noted one of the other _statores_ at that point. While it was true that the boys at the Castrum learned from their families all these things, for a woman to be treated the same way, to be taught as a boy would have been taught, it was a thing unheard of.

"If he wanted that, then he's out of luck. She accepted, without blinking." Answered Agrippa, who then spent the next few minutes detailing exactly how the Antonia woman had agreed to all the conditions, warning the Praetor that she wasn't a master of her style of fighting but that she would teach what she knew to those who were interested in it. The barbarians, obviously, had approved her folly, swapping tales of fighting women in their homelands and confirming once again that they were nothing but an uncivilized lot.

"It may be because of what happened to her. She did had her village razed to the ground by the Saxons, didn't she?" Augustus Sempronius, a veteran of twenty years of service, offered. At the inquisitive gazes he received the man snorted. "Now, _here_, she's safe but not even a few months ago she was stumbling wildly in the forest after surviving the destruction of her village. She may want to be able to defend herself, should she decide to leave." He added, clearly amused that no one had immediately picked up his meaning.

"Still, I hope some Romans are going to accept her trading of skills." Commented Seneca Domitius, after Augustus's hypothesis had been discussed, thought over and then agreed upon. There were nods at that and quite a few voices raised in agreement. They were all aware that the Sarmatians were going to offer themselves, what with having women who did the work of men in their culture, and probably Burkhard and his compatriots were going to offer too, just to be contrary as they usually were.

"It wouldn't do if the woman learned her skills only from the barbarians." Augustus muttered, and the whole room agreed with him. They couldn't certainly leave a woman in the hands of those two groups, not while there were perfectly trained Romans that could help her.

"She will learn her trade of choice from other Romans like her, luckily, but we must ensure that she doesn't get her head brainwashed by the ridiculous ideas those beasts would give her." Tiberius, who was just a year older than Agrippa and one of the most outspoken voices against the Sarmatians, pitched in. There were a fair few mutterings of agreement all around.

"Maybe you could get your wife to help." Agrippa suggested to Tiberius, whose wife Flavia had went with Centurion Lucullo's wife Justinia to visit the Antonia woman when she had been in the cells. "I'm sure she would be happy to." Agrippa shrugged. Everyone knew that Flavia was a busybody of the worst order and as strong in her pride at being Roman as her husband was.

"She would be and she _has_ been telling me that we should at least try to get her to one of the festivals. Even if she doesn't celebrate the gods, she can just go for the fun like we do." Tiberius replied, with a vague nod. He and his wife were Christian, like Agrippa himself was, but all of them still went to the non-religious part of the old festival celebrations.

Romans stuck with Romans, after all.

**-§-break-§-**

If there was something worse than being stuck in the Healing Rooms under Jol's supervision, it was being stuck in the Healing Rooms under Jol's supervision while shit is going on outside. Which was exactly what happened every single time Gawain somehow landed in there. Yet, nothing of the magnitude of what had been going on in the last few days had ever happened while he was completely useless in a bed waiting for Jol's pastes and powders to make their work and help his wounds close and scar over.

Even Tristan seemed hacked off that he hadn't been around for the whole disaster, though Gawain suspected that part of the other man bad mood was because basically everyone had seen the girl in charge of his falcon's health but him. Tristan was weird. Gawain was far more hacked off because he hadn't been around to see Galahad get _maimed_ by a woman. By the gods, he always missed out on the best when he was wounded. Fucking woads.

"Tell me about it again." He told Gaheris, who had been the nearer to the two of them, as he watched Galahad getting bitched out by Jols for not coming to him immediately. Galahad face was swollen, his eyes circled by black rings and one swollen up from the punch he had received in the face. It sounded like an -_awesome_- beatdown. Apparently, the idiot had been so drunk first and so hungover later that he hadn't even realized he had a broken nose. It was hilarious.

Gaheris complied, with Agravaine and Gareth chipping in to add their own impressions or correct Gaheris when they thought it was needed. Who would have thought that the shy woman he had chatted with would have been able to do so much damage? And that wasn't even the most interesting thing that had happened, though in Gawain's mind it was still the most hilarious.

No, like Dinadan was telling Tristan on the other side of the room (with Percival's aid and intermissions) the most interesting thing was that the woman had accepted all the conditions Arthur had posed to her, hadn't even thought about it before she had said yes to all of them. Just the time for her eyes to bulge and her to look at Arthur's completely astonished (Percival made good astonished faces, but that said more about Percival as a person than about his acting abilities) and then she was nodding and going along with it, quite happily too apparently.

Gawain had never heard of a Roman woman willingly to get out in the training fields and work her ass off. He had seen the Sarmatian women learning how to use bows and short swords and had found himself killing the occasionally fighting woad woman, but Romans? Nah, too prissy and stuck up to deign themselves to such "barbarian" activities, with the possible exception of the _gladiatrix_ that Gaheris remembered from their passage in Londinum. Everybody, though, knew that the gladiators were slaves anyway, which meant they couldn't be counted as Roman citizens.

That the woman had been so willingly to go along with it, was probably a testament to the man that had taught her that unarmed fighting style of her. Gawain supposed that her parents hadn't seen the kind of things she was being taught, or at least how, because it was a style that required close contact to work and surely a large amount of time spent on one's ass in the mud. Oh well, better for the girl.

For them too, actually, because now they could have a new pet project. Apart from taking care of their animals and keep their skills sharp the knights didn't had much to do between one mission and the next. They weren't legionaries stationed at the Fort that had specific duties and a rigorous schedule to follow each day. They weren't even part of the regular troops, for fuck's sake!

The knights fell under the definition of _foederati_, or 'treaty troops', because of the pact made by their ancestors after their defeat in what the Romans had called "The Marcomannic Wars". While they resided at the Fort, along with the members of the Tenth Cohort, they were just a minor unit of the Legion that had been stationed along the Wall. Part of the forces assigned under the command of Arthur (who still rode out with those of them that were on mission more often than not, leaving the Fort in the hands of Caesar Matius, the _Optio_ and the far the less prejudiced centurion of the lot, Arthur not included).

Fifteen men in a cavalry unit of one hundred and twenty, used as escorts, scouts or messengers at the whim of the rest of the Legion and the Legatus who commanded it all or depending on the informations Arthur received from the other commander along the line. This left them with quite a bit of time to kill on their hands, between an assignment and the next.

Now they had at disposal a woman who was, apparently, willing to learn how to really fight and who had been ordered to learn about riding and being a man. If they could manage to stop the Romans from hogging her, they could have a lot of fun with her, once they saw their mettle on the training fields.

Agravaine had mentioned something about Lamorak and Lancelot striking an alliance with the Gauls on the matter. Gawain really hoped the negotiations were going to be successful, because with the Gauls on their sides instead of competing with them, things were going to be much easier. Oh, if only he could have been on his feet! Gawain had made a few friends in the Gaul contingent, who could have helped to smooth things along.

**-§-break-§-**

Cogidubnus roared with approval at how close Burkhard had come to disarm Lamorak. The haggling between the two men had rapidly stalled when they had set their final prices for the alliance on the matter of the Roman woman who wanted to learn how to fight.

Both parties had agreed on the fact that it would have been better if the two contingents allied in keeping the Roman legionaries and knights out of their feet, but the Gauls weren't going to ally themselves for nothing at all. They had agreed to swap places or cover (one contingent for the other) should the need for it come up for the duration of the woman's training, but the Sarmatians had refused to give up their boxes in the stables for the same period of time.

Since the Sarmatians had held the best boxes of the stables since they had come to the Fort to get trained, the Gauls had refused to let that term go. With both parties refusing to back off and that term being the only term of contention between them, it had been easily decided to have two persons, one for each contingent, square it off on the Training Fields.

Burkhard had been rapidly nominated for the Gauls and Lamorak had stepped out for the knights. They were now locked in combat together, under the eyes of most of the Gauls and a handful of the Sarmatians. Cogidubnus roared again, supporting Burkhard as the man had to take a few steps back to avoid Lamorak's counter.

Fuck but he was tired of having to use the third-rate boxes while the Sarmatians and the Romans enjoyed the best ones.

**-§-break-§-**

After Arthur had served her the opportunity of a lifetime on a silver plate (Oh God, she still couldn't believe that she was going to go with it and actually do it), she had retired to her room to take her clean dress (the one she was in required patching up and was in sore need of a wash by now) and had then scampered off to the Public Baths for a much needed long and relaxing bath in the women section of the building.

God, but there was really little that was better than soaking in a pool of scorching hot water to unwind oneself. Especially the harrowing experience that had been trying to keep up a facade of normalcy and mental sanity while in front of the future King Arthur, inside the circle formed by the Round Table and surrounded with a group of men hot and buff enough to make any girl's head spin even considering how dirty and smelly they were. Hadn't her mind been preoccupied with processing Arthur's words and then gaping at them, she would have probably come off as a giggling lunatic.

Burrowing a little lower in the wonderful hot water that surrounded her body, Isobel closed her eyes and allowed herself to indulge a little in all the possibilities her brain had been suggesting to her since she had found herself face-to-face with Lancelot in the Healing Rooms hallway.

She had a vague suspicion that she was soon going to develop a carpal tunnel, if things went on the way they had gone on until now. She hadn't been laid since … well, since a couple of months before she had woken up in the _now_, which had happened five months before (more or less). Still, in the _then_ she had taken care of things with the help of products of the modern technology that now weren't available anymore. There was little to be surprised that she was being so dirty-minded towards any hottie that crossed her path, considering she was about to enter her sixth month of complete abstinence.

And now she was in almost daily contact with all those delicious hunks... Lancelot and his relentless pursuit, Dinadan who thank God was as dirty as he was, Gawain and his killer smile but also many of the others. What the hell was in the Slavic regions water to make them produce that kind of men?

They were also _so_ ripped, from all of their battles and riding and … Isobel bit her lower lip and reminded herself that she was in a _Public_ Bath and she wasn't going to do anything untoward or that could possibly be interpreted as such. Pressing her legs together she suppressed a whine and reminded herself of the by now, for her brain, infamous Google Search she had made about STDs. She wasn't all that keen for a jump in the Frigidarium, at the moment.

**-§-break-§-**

Centurion Octavius Lucullo occasionally, from time to time, entertained a deep-seated desire of closing his hands around Arthur Castus's neck and just _squeeze_. Or maybe run him through with the nearest pointy object that wasn't his sword (just to avoid incriminating himself). It wasn't a recurring thought (mostly), but it was what from time to time popped up in his mind. Usually, that kind of desire presented himself whenever Arthur was planning to leave the Fort to go with his favorite barbarians out in the open, whenever the Sarmatians somehow ended up having to be somewhat protected by the full consequences of their actions or when Arthur was having a strong phase of 'Pelagitis'.

That was the name Octavius had decided to give to those periods of time when their commander was more obsessed than usual with brotherhood and equality and freedom and a slew of other concepts that had no space in a self-respecting Roman's head. Octavius was convinced that was Arthur's Briton-half shining through. Like at the moment, when Octavius had tuned out Arthur after the latter had explained his newest hare-brained idea (making a good Roman woman train and act like a man, the gods help them all) and had started fantasizing about wringing the other man's neck. He wasn't entirely sure his fellow centurions would stop him either, judging by the general reaction to that nice bit of news.

Since the Fort was hosting only the Tenth Cohort, plus the Equites Legionis (which translated in his mind to "_that_ bunch of barbarians"), there were six total of them. Arthur, was the Decimus Pilus Prior and doubled up as the Praetor, the title usually used in referring to him, which meant that he was Octavius's boss and the man in charge of the Cohort, the Equites and the Castrum. Which was exactly why the man shouldn't have been gone more often than not traipsing around in a territory infested with Woads and Saxons with only a bunch of Sarmatians to cover his back.

Following Arthur, the Decimus Princeps Prior and Optio (which meant the one who took care of not having all of them killed whenever Arthur dumped his duties for the previously mentioned traipsing around) was Marius Matius who wasn't as bad as the Praetor (or, at least, less affected by 'Pelagitis' and more practical all around) but still lacked the proper roman pride that Octavius himself possessed.

The remaining four were Octavius himself, his brother Quintius Lucullo, Silius Junius whose brother's family provided all of them with first quality clothes and Furius Cantius, who had been unfortunate enough to get saddled with most of the Gauls that weren't cavalry (and as such under Arthur's command).

Not one of them had yet been able to get the Praetor to see reason, when the man went on one of his 'Pelagitis phases'. The most they could do was go along with it and try to keep the legionaries in check. This one was going to go down a laugh. Octavius was sure that Arthur thought that he was doing the best thing for the woman, pushing her into the life of a man instead of trying to get her to see that her best option was to get married and quickly. He was aware that Arthur was acting with the best intentions, but still this wasn't going to stop the soldiers from having a laugh at the woman expenses.

It didn't matter that she had learned some hand to hand moves from some old soldier wandering in the countryside or that she had agreed to go with Arthur's terms. She was only a woman, who had been through hell recently and was now just trying to keep afloat no matter what that would cost her. She had no idea what she was getting into, accepting the insane regime that their Praetor had practically imposed to her. She was just a _woman_!

Octavius nodded because the others where nodding and heaved a mental sigh.

Maybe a feminine hand was going to have better results on the woman, now that she had been pushed by the highest authority of the Castrum toward a path of destruction. A woman, learning how to fight and be like a man! Women weren't done to live the life of a man, or they would have been born men. They had other responsibilities and duties and a woman without any family had the duty to form a new one. The fact that she had claimed _sui iris_ status was a clearly sign of how much the attack on her village and family had hurt her.

Octavius resolved himself to talk to his wife about it and then let her do her job in showing that poor woman the best way to resolve her problems. The right way. The Roman way.

Their son was of marriageable age, after all, wasn't he?

**-§-break-§-**

Jols said nothing when, getting outside to catch a breath of fresh air, he saw Iseult perched on one of the beams of the hallway outside the Healing Rooms. It wasn't the first time Tristan had been injured and it wasn't the first time the falcon had taken that same place, waiting for her owner to come out so that they could be reunited.

He noticed, also, the way the bird wasn't looking towards the Valetudinarium, like she had all the previous times she had been in that position, but instead towards the Via Principalis, as if waiting for someone who had to come from that direction. He wasn't surprised. The falcon had taken a shine to Isobel, for as much as the foul beast could take a shine to anyone except her owner.

Jols couldn't fault the animal. Isobel was a smart girl, with the right kind of attitude to go far in the world. She wasn't arrogant nor meek, but more of a calm person though a severely stressed one. He supposed it was to be expected, what with her harrowing experience, but he had learned early in his training that living well was one of the most important things to ensure, if one wanted to stay healthy. Isobel? She wasn't living well, at all.

The medic had no need of being particularly observant to notice how much the woman was already wound up or how she kept winding herself up each moment more. It was one of the reasons he had approved of the whole _sui iris_ thing, after all. Giving her control over her life was probably going to drain her energy, because there was much that she was going to have to learn and understand, but was also going to give her a purpose. Not just the purpose given by a job, something that helped her to get through one day at time, but a more general purpose of managing her life and future. She was going to have to, to rightly take care of herself, and that was going to snap her out of all that stress or, at least, induce a break-down strong enough to pierce her defenses.

He had no idea of how, or even if, she had dealt with the events that had brought on the destruction of her village, but he was fairly sure that she had somehow managed to avoid to. Jols wasn't in any position to pry or force her to share, nor he did want to do as much, but she was going to need that release and she was going to need it -_soon_-.

Maybe, he considered, it could be good to tip Lancelot off. The man had gone as far as get completely clean for the woman, he had heard, and he was apparently quite taken with Isobel. Jols supposed that if someone could break down her defenses and get the woman, any woman, to open up that person was going to be Lancelot, what with his talent for handling the females.

Having, distractedly, kept his eyes on Iseult, Jols didn't missed the moment the falcon decided to take flight again. Following the animal with his eyes, he noted the way Iseult had aimed right towards the Public Baths towards the end of the road. Being afternoon, there were a few people walking in the road. Soldiers on their way from or to their quarters, a few kids, some women that were probably going back to their houses to start preparing the _cena_ and a woman in dark blue dress whose head snapped up when Iseult screeched.

The woman fumbled with what looked like an heavy glove, pushing it over her left hand, and then she held her arm away from her body and with the forearm and wrist lined in a straight line. Another screech and then Iseult, clearly satisfied, landed onto her owner's glove and on Isobel's forearm. The girl dipped a little for a moment, probably caught unprepared by the whole weight of the falcon being balanced on her that way, but then straightened up, opening her mouth to say something that Jols was far too distant to hear clearly.

Jols heard steps to his right and then someone stopped right next to him. He did not take his eyes away from the girl and the falcon, watching with well-concealed amusement the way the two of them interacted as Isobel went back to walking along the side-walk, crossing in front of the Forum as she made her way towards the Praetorium.

"Those looks an awful lot like Tristan's glove and Iseult." Percival commented, neutrally, and Jols shrugged, not bothering with an answer. It wasn't as if both of them didn't knew that was exactly what they were. Jols had acted on a hunch, when he had decided to lift one of Tristan's gloves to loan to Isobel, but his hunch had been proven right and he found no regret at all for his actions. Both woman and falcon looked quite satisfied with the arrangement, as much as a falcon could look satisfied anyway.

"She has good hands, steady ones. It's why she's one of the girls we know we can call if we need more hands in the Valetudinarium." He commented instead, still stewing a little over the fact that Galahad, of all people, had so callously insulted her in the tavern. Jols had taken a particularly vicious pleasure in yanking the little bastard nose back straight, harder than what was necessary. Galahad had even accused him of doing as much, but Galahad always did it and no one had paid attention to his claims. Jols repressed a smirk, at the thought.

"It was also why she was in the Valetudinarium the other day, when they decided to give her the falcon." He added, knowing that Percival attention was all on him, now. They were both looking at Isobel walking and talking in what was probably a low voice to the falcon, as Iseult listened at her with what to Jols seemed to be a disapproving gaze.

"She's the one who stitched Gawain up. Firm hands, doesn't faint at the sight of blood. The moment the wounds were cleaned she was there to sew them closed." He concluded, knowing that Percival was going to understand why Jols was revealing this to him, who he wanted the news to go back to.

Let Galahad stew on _that_.

"Have you seen Lancelot?" He inquired then, his mind already drifting to the decision of how much he was going to tell the curly-haired knight and how.

**-§-break-§-**

Ethelind couldn't help herself. She just _had_ to skip around. Isobel, her dear Isobel, was finally in motion and, like Ethelind had always suspected it would go, now that she was acting like herself she had started to draw attention.

Isobel was calm and gentle, aloof to most but friendly with her and educated with everyone about practically everything (unless you worked her in a temper, than poor you like Galahad had discovered the night before). That hadn't stopped her from being one hell of a woman, probably only was part of what made her so.

It had been there all along. The temper under the calm, the ability to get her way even when her way was to be left almost completely alone, the hard core around which she had built herself up, the way she was able to let scathing remarks fall from her lips with the same ease of crass insults and compliments depending on the mood and person she was talking about.

Ethelind's friend wasn't a meek kitchen maid, a quiet little seamstress that was content with stitching clothes and keeping her head bowed to man and authority alike, though she was able to do it and agreeable to play by the rules. She was lawful but with a rebellious streak as wide as Hadrian's Wall was long.

She hadn't chosen to be her friend for nothing, she had not worked so hard to drag her out of her shell just for her own fun. Isobel needed it, even if she herself wasn't aware of it. She hadn't been born to live under the notice of her peers, she wasn't a woman fashioned by the gods to stand in the shadows. Isobel was too different of a woman from the others for that.

She wasn't made for the first line either, not the way some men were made to be leaders or heavy hitters, but she was made to withstand the attention of others and battles of all kinds (physical, mental, social) alike. She had the strength to take the weight of her own difference and live with it, lifting it up instead of being dragged down. And now it wasn't only Ethelind who saw as much, but it was slowly but surely becoming increasingly clear to the rest of the world.

So yes, Ethelind couldn't help herself (even though Drusus the cook clearly thought differently). She just _had_ to skip around. She was too happy not to.

**-§-break-§-**

Many eyes watched the _sui iris_ woman as she crossed the street and continued along the Via Praetoria, the Scout's falcon perched on her left forearm. She was novelty, an oddity that had lived between them for months without attracting any attention until suddenly she had polarized all of the gossip going through the Castrum.

She was just a woman, a well shaped one but indeed only a woman nonetheless. One that wasn't all that to look at, too, at least going by her face. But while she had walked a little hunched on herself and shying away from the attention not even a day before, now she was walking with her back straight and her head held high. She looked more comfortable in her skin, more sure of herself and of her footing between them.

Many people had no idea, yet, of what to do with her. She was one of a kind, not a woman like the ones that already lived at the Castrum or the ones that came passing through, with merchants or their husbands or fathers.

She was one of them, for the Romans, and yet not comparable to any of them, because she was no woman like the other women and she was no man even though she had claimed and being pushed in the position of one.

She was the strangest Roman the Briton had ever seen, one that would have been compared to a Woad woman for her viciousness and fighting abilities hadn't the story of her past already spread far and wide in the Castrum. She was not one of them but at the same time she was not of the Romans either, they felt instinctively.

The Gaul soldiers were reminded of some of the women, back at home, mothers or sisters to some or cousins or women they had heard about. Her skin was a different color, the hair the wrong hue but she had something in her that still brought them to mind. Some had seen her fight and she was no Roman woman to them, the one who had so viciously targeted the knight who had insulted her. They recognized her as different, and liked it.

There weren't much Sarmatians around and none that had already chatted or met her long enough to establish any kind of dialogue. She was the one Roman who wasn't adverse to them, according to Dinadan and Lancelot, and yet at the same time she was the only Roman woman who had raised hand, or knee muttered Agravaine to Elyan making the other knight chuckle, to strike against them. She was an oddity and one that promised to be a fun distraction to kill time with, while they waited for Rome to order them on another one of their ridiculous missions.

Isobel felt eyes upon herself and resolutely kept her own either on Iseult or in front of herself. She wasn't going to be able to disappear in the background anymore. Her nerves, her pride, had gotten the best of her and had managed to undo all the work of the past months, dragging her into the limelight.

It had all started with the falcon, but she was the one who had put herself were she was now and if she didn't had the option to disappear anymore, then she was going to brave the public light and go all the way through. She had the opportunity to make herself into something more than who she was and she wasn't going to waste it, she had decided while she was toweling herself dry in the Public Baths.

The _then_ was the _then_ and it didn't regard her anymore. She was in the _now_ and, goddammit, but she was going to tuck her sleeves back and work hard to make her _now_ as safe and worth living as she could make it.

Humming softly to herself (See You At The Show by Nickelback because it felt somewhat appropriate), she gently caressed Iseult's wing as she turned to cross the road right in front of the Public Market. She had a new purchase to make.

**-§-break-§-**

"A pair of -_what-_?" Lucius voice was slightly high pitched but Augusta Minor couldn't fault him for it. Hadn't she herself been shocked speechless by the request she probably would have sounded even higher than him. Still, the sound was irritating and it had elicited a shriek from the falcon that was posed onto Domina Isobel's gloved wrist.

"Breeches. I've been told I have to learn to ride and act like a man. I suppose that means that I will have to wear breeches, since I've never seen a man ride in a dress." Was the dry answer coming from the older woman. The Domina was putting on a brave front, acting as if the indignity of the request wasn't a concern for her and Augusta felt more impressed than ever by her countenance and the force of her will.

"Breeches." Lucius repeated and the Domina nodded, lips setting in a grim line. Augusta Minor kicked her brother's shin, trying to remind him that he wasn't supposed to upset a customer, especially not that one. It wasn't as if the decision had been made by the Domina! Lucius shot her a warning glance but he also seemed to finally realize how bad he had been behaving, so that made it worth it.

"I see. I will see to it, maybe we have some to sell to you Domina." He said, with a polite nod, and then promptly disappeared in the back of the shop, possibly to freak out a little more. Lucius was such a dramatic idiot.

"How are your stitches coming along, Augusta?" The Domina inquired, turning to look at her as she waited for Lucius to do his job. Even though Augusta had gone visit her into prison, once she had heard that she was being detained for defending her family honor from the slanderous words of one of those dreadful barbarians, she hadn't expected the Domina to actually strike a conversation with her.

"They are getting better." She answered, cheeks coloring a little as she offered her piece of cloth to the woman for her perusal, careful of keeping out of the falcon's reach. The Domina herself stitched and sewed clothes for the legionaries so Augusta was a little anxious to see what the older woman thought of her work. By now she was getting the pattern right almost every single time and she was almost ready to stitch it on the dress itself.

"That they are. This is a really beautiful pattern, very well executed." The Domina commented and Augusta felt her cheeks go up in flames. To have the Domina praise her work filled her with a happy giddiness and made her want to giggle. She accepted the cloth back, dipping her head as she stifled the giggles.

"Thank you, Domina." She replied, feeling quite elated. Even the presence of that horrible and scary bird couldn't dampen her new-found good humor. By now, everybody knew that the Domina had been put in charge of the health and well-being of the animal until it's owner recovered from his wounds. Augusta hadn't been surprised by this, as Augusta Major had been. After all, who better than the Domina could take on such a task? To think that she had even been injured in the course of it!

Augusta risked a look at the Domina Isobel's hands and, indeed, they were bandaged. Augusta couldn't fathom the pain the older woman had to had gone through. She felt sure, though, that the Domina hadn't even reacted to it, stoic as she was. As if pain could stop the Domina from doing what had to be done! Hadn't the older woman demonstrated as much when she had continued punishing the Sarmatian barbarian even a_fter_ his elbow had hit her stomach?

"I sew myself, but the pattern you're working on is new to me. Would you mind show me how do you proceed in sewing it?"

Augusta had never met a woman she admired more than Domina Isobel. As she started to pull the thread out to start again, she secretly prayed, in her head, for Lucius to incur in all kind of problems while retrieving both the Domina's measures and a pair of breeches that could fit her from the stock they kept always ready in the back of the shop (for those in dire need of a new pair).

She could have spent the whole evening showing patterns to her, basking in her company. Evil barbaric falcon notwithstanding.

**-§-break-§-**

**Author Note**

I'm deeply, deeply sorry for the long wait I subjected you all to! This chapter was difficult to get out for me because the muses weren't working with me. I wanted you all to see the encounter between Arthur, the knights and Isobel but it just wouldn't come out right.

I spent days trying to write down a version that satisfied me, all to no avail. I knew what was going to happen and how, knew the words and the reactions but there was no way to pull it out of my mind in a way that looked good enough or satisfying enough. Then I decided to just scrap it off and work it out later, to concentrate on the ripples caused in the pond that is the Castrum by her actions... and suddenly I had Agrippa running to the other _statores_ and telling them what had happened. There was no need for me to write out the meeting. I could show, instead of the words in the Round Table's room, how those words and decisions had impacted the people of the Castrum and changed yet again not only Isobel but their perception of her.

I really hope you can forgive me for the wait and that you enjoyed this chapter as much as the previous ones! Thanks for reading and for all the delicious Alerts and Reviews!

Also, because I was asked by DGfleetfox about which Hollywood actress I would point out as Isobel's face I put up on my profile (under the Map of the Castrum and its description) a series of links to both canon characters and some of my Ocs (more will come in the future), like a little Who's Who of the fic. If you want, you can go and I would like to know what you think of the faces I've chosen!

As always, my greatest love, thanks and devotion to **KyuubyPaw**, who is my beta and one of the greatest person one can turn to when a good friend with a head full of awesome suggestions is needed!

No additional author ramblings this time around, I want to know what _you_ think of the chapter and the various POVs in it if you decide to take the time to give me a review ;)

**Navi . BLACK**: Thank you very much for putting my story in your favorites!

**Violent Alice**: Hee I'm really happy you're enjoying the story and that you think the characters are well developed. I do try to make each of them into his/her own person and, as such, distinguishable from the others so hearing that it works is really great! About the STD's, while it is true what you've said, crabs and fleas were still common even back then, pubic lice included. Also, herpes (which counts as an STD since it can be transmitted sexually) is over two thousand years old (there was an edict from Emperor Tiberius somewhere against kissing because of herpes). That said, Lancelot doesn't have any STD (he would have noticed) and Isobel is just freaking out and blowing things out of proportion because she doesn't have any idea of the history of STDs (as you had rightly supposed). Thanks for the tip though, it motivated me to go and check my research and it's been very useful in making me refresh things! I'm sorry I didn't updated really fast, I will try to not make you wait so much for the next chapter! Thank you very much for adding me to both your favorites and alerts too!

**DGfleetfox**: Hee, thank you very much for reviewing, I appreciate it doubly that you took the time to do so since you were tired *hugs you*. I completely sympathize about having someone in mind when reading about OCs and this is why, like I wrote up, I made a few searches and found out images for the OCs appearing in the story! For Isobel I had to search for an actress that had both a nice rack (as Lancelot noted the first time they met she has a good figure) and muscles while still being feminine and brown haired. Hollywood doesn't allow for plain looking women so I concentrated on those attributes and I ended up choosing Michelle Ryan for her, who was the titular character in Bionic Woman (and showed one-handed push-ups and a nice muscled figure without going into 'buff' territory) and Nimueh on Merlin (though Isobel doesn't use any of the kind of make-ups that the Romans used and Nimueh instead had a lipstick that stuck out really strongly, not to mention shaped eyebrows, eyeshadow and mascara). I hope you'll like casting her in the role in your mind and I would like to have your opinion about the other characters too!

**Kristall**: Yep, Galahad did indeed got his demonstration and he won't forget about it ;). I hope that this chapter answered your questions about Isobel being in prison. It was a temporary measure, mostly like been chucked in the drunk tank while you wait for the bail to be posted or the judge to fine you. While Roman laws weren't too different from ours on self-defense (and women had a little leeway if they could prove themselves to be above reproach from a moral standpoint) the Castrum is not a civilian city so rules are different. I hope that the first two POV's cleared things up a bit for you! Thanks for reviewing :D

**Baroque**: Hee, I'm really happy you found the fight entertaining (and yes, it was more of a one-sided attempt at maiming than anything else) and I hope that you found the way I recapped what happened afterwards entertaining too! As you can see we didn't really got to see the meeting _per se_, but I did strive to give you all an idea of not only the punishment the two of them got but how everything reflected and impacted on both the community and Isobel's life and reputation. Isobel has indeed realized that she has to curb her temper and keep calm but by now the damage has been done and she will have to live with the consequences (you can't turn back time). Though people will think twice before goading or insulting her after what happened, which may help. She's not really the violent sort, when she's not taken by surprise / provoked into acting ;)

**BannaRamma132**: Thank you very much for adding this story to your favorites list, it's really great :)

**quixoticquin**: I'm really happy that you like the story! There wasn't much Isobel/Iseult interaction in this chapter but Iseult has come back and she will be in the next chapter! I'm really happy that you like how they work together, they are quite fun to write. I'm also really content that you find the historical notes interesting. I was worried about them but seeing how much you all seem to appreciate them makes me really happy! Thank you very much for taking the time to review the story!

Hee, I was about to post when I checked my email and found new alerts and reviews! Folks, YOU ARE AWESOME AND THE NEW CHAPTER IS HERE!

**Forestreject**: Thank you SO much for the Story Alert! The Author Alert too (You have no idea the amounts of difficulty I had trying not to flaceplant from the flailing _that_ one induced, I won't stop blushing for _days_, thank you SO very much!). Yep, Tristan is definitely awake and he gets a mention in this chapter. I feel confident in saying he will show up more consistently from the next one onwards ;). *snickers* Lancelot is acting a bit like a stalker I do not deny it. To his (quite relative since I do agree with you) defense, she's not making pursuing her easy and he's resorting to methods he usually wouldn't use (because there will be no need for them). As you can see Arthur was torn between 'WTF why are you making this my life' and 'well, Galahad _did_ deserve it'. He's been side blinded with all these sudden clusterfuck. And, about your last question, "It" has indeed came back to her ;). The Female needs someone to look after her and she _still_ is the one Iseult will have to stay with until The One She Had Chosen To Hunt With is back on the saddle. I like those two 'girls' together too much to keep them separated, while I can avoid it.

I leave you all to the Historical Notes while I head off to start writing Chapter Nine.

**Historical Notes**

_Female gladiators_

While once upon a time Roman female citizen _had_ battled in the arena, by the time my story is set that was a long-time dead tradition, since it had been so harshly and repeatedly criticized that no woman of good standing would ever enter a ring to fight for the entertainment of men.

Slaves, off course, were still employed in some games but no one really cared about them, what with them being slaves and all.

_Structure of a Legion_

Legions were _huge_. Like, seriously huge. So I couldn't realistically have Arthur being a commander of something of the kind, even if in the movie it seemed like he was the boss of the place with no others giving orders (I will come, within the story, to putting him in a similar position but … well, you will wait and see).

So Arthur, for now, is a Centurion. Not any Centurion, even, but the one in charge of both the Castrum, the Cohort and the Cavalry. While that is quite improbable (not to say almost impossible) I admit to it and I tell you that if I did things differently, it would have made making him the head of everything at the Castrum basically impossible. I will now explain why.

A Legion can be easily broken down in units in the following way:

_1 Contubernium_ = 8 men = A single tent (or barrack) of legionaries

_1 Centuria_ = 10 Contubernium = 80 men + 1 centurion to lead them all + minor officers

_1 Manipolo_ = 2 Centurie = 160 men + 2 centurions + minor officers

_1 Cohort_ = 6 Centurie or 3 Manipolo = 480 men + 6 centurions + minor officers

_1 Legion_ = 10 Cohorts (of whom the First Cohort had double the number of men) + Eques Legionis (120 cavalry) + 59 centurions (the head centurion of the First Cohort did double work) + officers = 5240 men + officers + eight superior officers (+ cooks, engineers, standard bearers, officers in charge of paying the soldiers, statores and a few other positions).

As you can see, it was all really schematic and broken down (and fucking _huge_ as I've already said). If Arthur was the head of the Eques Legionis, he shouldn't had gotten legionaries around the Castrum obeying his orders because they wouldn't have been his business. If he was the one calling the shots with the soldiers, he shouldn't have been in charge of the knights (who were far too few by the movie but I can understand the reasons behind their choices even if I don't like them). So I've resolved the question by putting Arthur in charge of more things and glossing it over by claiming that at the time they had little personnel to waist up in the North. On this point I must bow to the movie and forsake history because, while I could've put Arthur in charge of the knights and nothing else (like I originally wanted to do), it would have clashed with the movie concept that he was the big shot and Commander of the Fort. Sadly, history gives way to narrative fiction on this one (partly, because I'm stubborn and I will cling to how a Legion actually worked as much as I can and am allowed to by the necessities of the story _, fuck you Hollywood).

While Legions often moved together and were able to build temporary Castrum fortifications (named by the number of days they needed to be up, erected in a day and taken down in another one), if a Legion was to be standing in a single place or guard a single objective (like, let's say … Hadrian's Wall) the Legion would spread and broke down in littler units (Cohorts mostly), counting on couriers and the Eques Legionis (or the eventual cavalry of the auxiliary legions that may have been assigned to their post [not our case]) to connect one Cohort to the next.

The Cohorts and the soldiers in them were divided in a scheme.

First Cohort was the Elite, double troops and the best soldiers around.

Second Cohort had newbies and greenhorns to train up in shape.

Third Cohort was normal legionaries doing their work.

Fourth Cohort had newbies and greenhorns too.

Fifth Cohort had normal legionaries.

Sixth Cohort had the best young troops, so Elite Jr in training basically.

Seventh Cohort had newbies and greenhorns yet again.

Eight Cohort was the Roman equivalent of the badasses, chosen troops for the stickiest jobs.

Ninth Cohort had newbies and greenhorns.

Tenth Cohort (the one Arthur's in charge of) was the 'good troops' who (according to a text I found in the library) sometimes was an euphemism for the troops that were a composite of good not-Roman citizen legionaries.

The Eques Legionis was the cavalry.

Do you see a pattern? Since most Legions broke down in Cohorts, by putting the newbies and greenhorns in the middle Cohorts assured that they would get action but that they had two more competent Cohorts to cover their flanks and to turn to should things go south.

Also, a couple of facts about service in the Legion:

Legionaries were in the service for 25 years (one of the reasons last chapter Burkhard was muttering about the knights being whiners, since they are all up in arms about 17 years of service while he and the other legionaries are in it for 8 years more than them).

Discipline was fundamental (one of the reasons Arthur had to make so clear that no one of those caught in the act were going to get off scot-free, even though Isobel is a civilian and Galahad a knight instead of a normal legionary).

Legionaries were paid monthly and they would get a plot of land once they got out of the service.

The legionaries who weren't citizens yet, or where given only partial citizenship because they were part of a conquered population, got full citizenship at the time of their discharge, if they were still alive to get it, along with the land and a scroll that testified they were free men and citizens, guaranteeing them safe passage through all of Rome (the scrolls the knight gets in the movie? Exactly that).

_Chain of command of a Legion_

I will here talk only about the main roles of the chain of command without going into all the little minor officers (if there will be need of clarification on that point I will talk about it when it comes up).

The chain of command was the following:

1. Legatus Legionies (boss of all bosses, he answered only to the head of all the army in Britain in our case, which was the Dux)

2. Tribunus Latiolavius (second in command, takes the place of the Legatus when needed)

3. Praefectus Castrorum (third in command and the one in charge of getting things done when all the Legion was in a single Castrum, like the Praetor was the man in charge of the Castrum his men were in)

4. Tribuni Angusticlavii (5 of them, career officers who got the tactical command when in battle)

5. Primus Pilus (the centurion all centurions answered too and one of the oldest veterans usually)

Under them were all the other centurions, who were in order of importance according to the number of their legion and which units they commanded.

The centurions (whose title didn't changed from cohort to cohort, except for adding the number of their Cohort in front of the title except for the First Cohort) were (in order of importance):

Pilus Prior (for the First Cohort, that was the Primus Pilus)

Princes Prior (for the First Cohort, that was the Princeps) who doubled as the Optio

Hastatus Prior (for the First Cohort, that was the Hastatus)

Pilus Posterior (for the First Cohort, that was the Primus Pilus who served the dual role)

Princeps Posterior (that was the same in all Cohorts)

Hastatus Posterior (that was the same in all Cohorts)

When Octavius but the "Decimus" in front of the roles in the narrative of the chapter, that meant "Tenth" in latin, which means that they are the centurions of the Tenth Cohort.

I hope that's all clear!

_Presence of other ethnic minorities in a Legion_

Often, when a population was subjugated or a treaty was reached between them and the Romans, the man were drafted in the Legions. It was a way to ensure that they either died in service of Rome or ended up becoming citizen themselves in the end, causing a mesh between them and the Romans populations.

To avoid deserters, most of those soldiers were sent to train and stationed away from their own land so that they would not only be in an unfamiliar landscape but they were also going to have a difficult time of getting home (because they had to survive through Roman land to get back home).

The soldiers were also branded with an SPQR tattoo that sometimes (most often than not according to a book I've read) included either the number or the symbol of the Legion they had been assigned to, on their arms. That was done to make identification of a soldier (or a rogue one) easier since all that was needed to do was to check their arm.

Sending the soldiers away had also the added bonus of weakening blood-lines and land-based traditions, because the soldiers would fuck or (in the case were a legion was stationed permanently in one place) plan to marry local women which would lead to bastards or offspring of mixed blood that was going to receive a mish-mash of cultural influences by the parents and grow up in a Roman influenced culture.

Unmarried soldiers or those with few people left at home when they left, would also be more reluctant to go back to their land of origin and instead choose to remain where they were or go back to the women and children they had left behind somewhere along the road, in some cases. More so, the land they were assigned was back in their original land but they had the option to sell it for a good price and buy instead a plot of local land to work in and build a house on.

Which is why I have Gaul soldiers being put in Britain along with the Sarmatians and Romans.

_Structure of a Public Roman Bath_

A public bath was entered through an atrium, that lead to the room known as _apodyterium_. There were two of those, one for men and one for women, and it consisted of a chamber with stone seats along the two sides of the wall, where people left their clothes (often there were pegs on the walls to put the clothes on to). There were different doors in this room, leading to the various other rooms of the bath. Naturally, the male _apodyterium_'s doors led to the male section and the female's _apodyterium_'s doors led to the female section of the bath house.

The main rooms (the one any bath would have had) were the caldarium (hot bath), the tepidarium (warm bath) and the frigidarium (cold bath). Some thermae also featured steam baths: the sudatorium, a moist steam bath, and the laconicum, a dry steam bath much like a modern sauna (not our case, no steam baths where they are though you could expect them in a proper city).

Usually people stepped in the frigidarium first, then proceeded to the tepidarium and then the caldarium, going into a process of gradual warming.

I will go into further details when it will be needed, this is it for now folks!

_Latin Terms_

_Gladiatrix_ – Female gladiator

_Senatores_ - Senators

_Foederati _– Treaty Soldiers, or people who had been drafted because a treaty of peace between their populations had commanded so

_Optio_ – Second in command to the Pilus Prior

_Decimus _- Tenth

_Frigidarium _– Cold (frigid) bath


	9. Where Tristan and Iseult get reunited

Isobel had almost forgotten what it felt like to wear pants.

The breeches she had bought from Augusta Minor's family were nowhere near the level of comfortable her old jeans and pants had afforded her (not to talk about the comfort of gym clothes) but it was still something.

Something wonderful, at that, with the added cover to her legs and no fear of someone seeing under her dress and better insulation from cold and the freeing sensation of being allowed wider movements. Oh she had missed pants _so much_.

It wasn't that Isobel wasn't comfortable in dresses, because she was. It was just that pants were more practical to a lot of activities and provided her with a freer range of action, especially in regard to physical activities like running or having a work-out.

Though she was wearing her new breeches under her dress (and no one was the wiser about the fact for now) she had no doubt that the story of her purchase had been all over the Fort in a matter of a few hours (Augusta Minor's brother didn't struck her as someone who kept his mouth shut, especially about gossip like that, little drama queen that he was) but no one had yet said a thing to her, not about _that_.

Ethelind, instead, had said many things to her about everything else. Chattering about the trades of the Fort (working with the horses, sewing clothes and shoes, working leather, working wood, working metal, being a maid in a bar, hunting and selling animal meat and skins, working on animal skins, working the land, and a few smattering of others) and what had happened (which had _obviously_ left Ethelind _almost_ as ecstatic as she would have been if Isobel had spent the night with Lancelot, but mind you _almost_) and how that was going to impact Isobel's future (in some incredible and unexpected way and wasn't that _exciting_?).

Isobel couldn't repress the mirth that Ethelind's enthusiasm inspired in her. She knew far too well that what was coming were years of long, hard work that was going to leave bruised, tired and in various degrees of muscle pain. At the same time she couldn't suppress her own budding excitement, that was being stocked by Ethelind's own. She was going to learn horse-riding, a trade and how to defend herself to a degree acceptable for the _now_!

Between the two of them, Drusus kitchen was filled with smirks and repressed laughter for most of their working hours. Which was good, since Drusus himself wasn't a shining beacon of happiness on any given day and was now to an all-time low. The man did not approved the Commander's decree and he had been quite put off when Isobel hadn't immediately selected cooking as her trade, so he had retaliated by being harsher than ever and loading her with the heaviest chore he could find.

Isobel, who had been expecting the increase in workload, didn't really thought much of it. She knew that Drusus would expect her to choose cooking, since she had been working for him in the kitchens practically since her arrival, but the truth was that she already knew how to cook and she wasn't going to let the opportunity to learn something new slip through her fingers. Chopping down pieces of wood for an hour wasn't a big price to pay, though it wasn't a walk in the park either.

Drusus wasn't the only one who disapproved. Many of the enlisted men that worked in the kitchen had looked at her in a way that clearly revealed that they didn't approve of her not taking the easy way out from the trade learning part of her sentence. Some of them, and a few of the kitchen maids, had offered their sympathy and support for her "plight" of having to learn the kind of things that pertained to men and men alone.

Wary of making enemies or upsetting the community she needed to fit in, Isobel had accepted their offers of sympathy with a smile and claimed that she was filled with such gratitude towards Praetor Castus that she wasn't going to defy his decision. As a man and the Praetor of the Castrum, who was she to question his judgment?

The argument had pacified them enough, though the men were quite obviously still retaining their impression and idea that she was in over her head and should have found a way to get out of those obligations. It was a contrast with a couple of the Briton maids and Cassius Junius, the engineer in charge of the kitchens, who had all taken a moment of her time to express their support towards her decision, in private.

She had accepted their words much more happily, appreciating the way they hadn't made much of a statement out of it. It had spared her the need to fib her answers with them, unlike what she had felt necessary to do with the others.

It was with a general good humor that she stepped out of the barracks building, done with the cleaning chores post-_ientaculum_. She had been busy adjusting the heavy glove Iseult liked to perch on, while Ethelind chatted on (again on the subject of the various up and downs of the trades and had she told Isobel that her brother was one of the hunters that foraged the Fort with food?), so she didn't immediately took notice of who the people outside were.

Lancelot's "I can't believe I have yet to give you my congratulations for kicking Galahad's ass." jolted her out of the conversation and made her head snap up so fast that she almost felt a crick in her neck.

The stupid charming knight (number two, her mind supplied gleefully) was there, along with Dinadan (who looked as filthy as ever, but that didn't stop her brain from shouting out "stupid charming knight number three", at her), Gaheris (stupid charming knight number four – _the attack continues!_, her imagination dubbed him) and Lamorak (old badass knight, her mind supplied). In addition to them, two buff looking blonds (filthy but oh my, look at those muscles!, her hormones cheered on) were standing with the knights.

All of them were looking at her.

Oh God, she should have factored in her plans the fact that Lancelot was going to -_pounce_- on the opportunity of spending time with her.

She was so, so fucked.

(-_Oh please, let it be so!-_ Her traitorous hormone-addled brain pleaded).

**-§-break-§-**

Cador had to give it to the woman, she had the right attitude.

He and his brother Caractacus had been the ones the Gauls had selected to approach the _sui iris_ woman. It had not come as a surprise, since they had presented good arguments in favor of such a choice. The only two male sons born in a family of fourteen children, both of them had learned how to deal with females and female fighters alike since the early stages of their life. It was impossible not to, when one had six older sisters (eight in Caractacus case since he was younger) and six younger sisters (four, for Caractacus).

While other of the men deployed with them had had experience of their own, there was no one that could claim the sheer size of the wealth of knowledge having so many female siblings had imparted on them. No one had been able to top their claim and Burkhard had approved of the choice, instructing them to work with the knights now that their temporary unofficial alliance had been forged (without new stables for the Gauls, but everyone recognized that losing to Lamorak was no stain on Burkhard's honor).

Obviously, he had expected the woman to be … something. To go so boldly against the rules of her own society, she had to have backbone at the very least (and a mean streak, according to Caractacus, who had seen her fight in Vanora's tavern). But he hadn't expected her to have the same attitude that he had seen many times before, in the eyes of many of his sisters and of those who had the strength to fight the hardest fights, whether they be on a battlefield or inside a house.

It wasn't a specific look, or a way of moving, though those tended to come along with that kind of attitude, usually. It was more of the way she reacted to things, no matter how wrong-footed they caught her. She pulled herself together and tried to get through whatever problem she had been presented with. It bode well for her training, as well as for her future. Briton was no place for people unable to deal with the shit life threw them.

She had flushed, eyes wide like that of a doe, while looking at Lancelot and then, after a moment in which they looked between panicked and hopeful, she had straightened up and squared her shoulders, raised her head high and then nodded to Lancelot, face growing serious in a clear attempt to look less like a frightened doe.

"Thank you. How come you are gracing us with your presence?" She had then proceeded to tell Lancelot in a tone that was so carefully neutral that Cador had problems not to laugh at it. Trust a Roman to throw up a shield of politeness.

The girl next to her, who was looking at the bunch of them like they were cuts of meat in the butcher's shop, rolled her eyes and then threw Lancelot a friendly smile, taking care to trod on her friends foot as she moved forward.

"Good day to you all, Knights. How may we be of assistance, please tell us." She had proceeded to chirp, ignoring the intake of breath from the _sui iris_ woman as she smiled widely at all of them.

Lancelot looked as determined as they had ever seen him be. Well, as determined and _clean _as they had ever seen him be. Dinadan was practically guffawing while Lamorak chuckled and Gaheris snickered, covering pretty much most of spectrum of laughter. Caractacus was shaking with silent laughter and Cador smirked, thinking about starting a betting pool on Lancelot chances to bed the _sui iris_.

"We have come to talk to Isobel, to offer our expertise in exchange for her knowledge of hand to hand fighting." Cador said, stepping forward and towards the two women.

He towered over the Briton but was more on an equal ground with the _sui iris_, who slightly inclined her head to the side to fix him with an assessing stare. The man behind him weren't laughing anymore, instead looking interested at what was happening. Lancelot made a step forward too, but the sound of scuffling and his barely restrained yelp told Cador that either Dinadan or Lamorak had yanked him back.

"Oh Isobel, you're _so_ lucky! You already have all this people wanting to teach you! It's wonderful!" The other maid chirped, clasping her hands together with a huge smile. Cador kept her in the corner of his eye but his attention remained on the woman, who had finished her assessing and was starting to smile at him.

She wasn't particularly attracting but seeing her smile, Cador could understand why Lancelot my be attracted to her by something other than her quite generous rack. When she smiled, her face softened and it looked like a much younger woman was looking at him, a homely one. As always, Lancelot proved to have eye for women.

"That it is." The _sui iris_ agreed, with a nod. She was about to continue, when a screech grabbed the attention of all and Cador eyes went up in the sky, easily tracking the form of Tristan's falcon as it descended on them, an animal in his clutches.

Not even waiting a beat, the _sui iris_ stepped back a step and raised her left arm, keeping it stiff and lined. The falcon settled on it and screeched again, more in the Sarmatians direction than in Cador's own. It was true, then, that the animal had taken a shine to the woman. Cador had never seen the beast get even near to anyone but Tristan, except when the falcon wanted to harm someone.

"Back from the hunt, I see. You brought me something, Iseult?" The woman greeted the falcon, taking the dead rabbit in her free hand and turning it over to look at it. The falcon screeched again, but at a less high pitch and with less hostility, and then looked at her, almost with expectancy.

"She wants the best bit, the heart. Tristan always gives it to her, as a reward for a successful hunt." Dinadan interjected, brushing past Cador and slowly taking out his knife, as if not to scare neither woman nor animal. Cador moved nearer to the Briton woman, who was looking fascinated, and from the shuffling at his back he was sure the others had spread out to get a better visual too.

"Well, better not make her wait. How is Tristan faring?" The falcon looked interested at the name of its owner but didn't screeched again, allowing Dinadan to cut open the rabbit.

The _sui iris_ looked like she was holding her breath, but Cador was more inclined to put it down to Dinadan's smell than squeamishness. Romans were obsessed with cleanliness and body odor, the lot of them.

His supposition was proved right when the woman used her bandaged fingers to take out the bleeding heart from the ribcage of the rabbit with her own fingers and offered it to the falcon, who looked mighty pleased at being offered it. A moment later, there was no heart to speak of and Dinadan was sheathing his knife. A glance towards Lancelot showed that the knight was being kept silent by Lamorak under the much amused gaze of Gaheris.

"He is better. Awake and briefed about what went on while he was passed out. It's part of why I am here." The knight told the woman, with one of his careless smiles that she took with far more grace than women usually did. At least she didn't blushed up to the roots of her hair and had to suppress giggling, like her friend (which Dinadan obviously noted, by the way he turned ever so slightly that he could encompass her too with his smile).

"Oh? Does he want to see Iseult? I can take her to him, once I'm done talking with the other knights." The _sui iris_ offered over the sound of her friend melting down in a puddle on the pavement at the sight of Dinadan smiling at her.

"He wants to meet both of you." The bastard corrected the woman. "You took care of his falcon, he wants to thank you." He explained and, after a moment of clear uncertainty, she pulled herself back together and nodded, voicing her agreement before she turned back towards him as she plucked out another internal organ from the rabbit Dinadan still held and offered it to the falcon, who ate it with gusto.

"What skill do you offer to trade for the knowledge I have of hand to hand combat?" She asked him and, from her eyes, Cador could tell that she was going to drive a hard bargain. He was starting to like this woman, she was too little like the other Romans not to. A shame she hadn't been borne a Gaul.

**-§-break-§-**

Gaheris had thought important to offer their trade of skills to the woman because he had doubted she was going to come up with interest in more than one or two and, therefore, they needed to take up those before the Romans could sweep the opportunity of actually training a female fighter from under their feet. It had been far too big of a treat to break the monotony, to let it be stolen from them.

This was why he find himself pleasantly surprised when the woman managed to come up with quite the interesting system of trading one skill for one skill, no matter the disproportion between the two skills on the table. She, Isobel (because now she was worthy of being labeled something else than "woman" in Gaheris's mind), asked them to walk with her and her friend to the market.

While walking, Isobel queried them about what they were skilled into, both on and off the battlefield, as she fed bits of the rabbit Dinadan was holding for her to the far too satisfied falcon perched on her left forearm.

Once her question had been satisfied she had offered them a choice between what she could teach and offer them. Her knowledge of hand to hand fighting, her knowledge of stitching and cooking, her knowledge of herbs and the fact that she would be able to get fairer price than them in the market by sheer virtue of being a Roman woman when buying things (only up for the duration of her own training) went all up on the metaphorical table.

Lancelot choose stitching, because off course the man would choose something that would allow him a spot in the little free time Isobel would get away from the training grounds or the kitchens. Lancelot was predictable like that.

Dinadan went for stitching too, claiming that he was not to have her divide her time between too many tasks. No one believed him, not even Isobel's friend, but it's not like Dinadan ever cared about being believed. He was all about needling Lancelot, whose face had soured in a way that was probably far too funny for Dinadan.

Gaheris had gone for the hand to hand combat because it wasn't like he really needed the others and he wanted to see more of what she had been able to do on the tavern. It was a dirty fight, the one she fought, and that made it all the more interesting.

Lamorak wasted no time in taking her up on her offer to buy items or food for them at lower prices. Stingy bastard if there ever was one, Lamorak was. Almost at the end of his service too, a little more than a year left before he was allowed to go back to Sarmatia, so it made sense for him to take up that offer instead of any real trading of skill.

The two Gauls had muttered to one another in their own language for a while, before they decided to go for knowledge of herbs and cooking, one each. Apparently, the older one planned to stick around until his brother was released from service too and then make their way back to Gaul, and their family of women (twelve sisters, really? Gaheris had just three brothers and he wanted to maim them more often then not) together, so they thought it would be more useful to have skills that complimented each other.

For herself, Isobel choose what Galahad believed to be an interesting array of skills and one he would have never expected a woman to be interested into.

Trap-making from the Gaul with the long name, fishing from the other one (they came from a village nearby a big river, who knew?). Sword lessons from Dinadan (Lancelot was as close to pouting like a woman as Gaheris had ever seen him be and that shit was funny as hell), endurance and strength from Lamorak (who was a hulking mountain of a man and looked quite baffled at the thought of a woman wanting to become stronger than what work had already made her). Of what he himself had to offer, Isobel asked from help with her horse-riding and fighting from atop a horse once she was good enough.

It was, really, quite the set even before she came to what she wanted from Lancelot and her own request to the two Gauls. For reasons only she herself knew about, she asked for lessons in the Sarmatian language from Lancelot and for the Gauls to find someone in their group willing to teach her their own language, in exchange for something she had to offer.

Saying that her interest for their own languages took them by surprise would have been a gross understatement. Even her own friend looked bewildered at _that_ choice. Even ignoring the fact that she was a woman, for a _Roman_ to actually be interested in what were considered by her own people as barbaric languages was completely unheard of.

How could such a skill be useful for her to become able to understand our languages when it was clear that she had no particular desire to travel and see their lands? Even if she did want to travel and see for herself what their lands looked like (which, he had to say, he doubted) Latin was still widespread and understood everywhere.

Isobel had the time to make a couple of purchases before they shook themselves out of our surprise enough to start questioning her about it, Lancelot included (though he looked like he didn't mind the idea of giving languages lessons at all, which wasn't really surprising). It was like pulling teeth, getting an answer out of her on that one argument.

She bought time by purchasing apples and feeding Tristan's falcon and tried to talk her way out of it, protesting that an explanation of her choice hadn't been included in the bargaining but the pestering of Lancelot and her best friend, along with the insistence of the Gauls that they wouldn't comply with her request unless she gave them a sound reason got the story out of her.

The man who had taught her hand to hand combat had been an old warrior of a far away land, at least according to the man who had apparently been quite stringy on the details. He had, during the course of their lessons, taught her words and songs in his language, a language that she had never heard spoken again. Possibly insults too, though she wouldn't admit to it. Not even when her friend told us that sometimes she did muttered words that made no sense but sounded scathing.

Looking at Isobel, looking like a proper Roman woman, Gaheris had to bit back his laughter. Talk about appearances being deceiving! The woman looked as flustered as a Roman maiden could have been after an ill timed compliment and they were talking about her ability to insult someone in more than a language! Oh, he was going to make sure she had her fill of Sarmatian insults to fall back on, in case of necessity. He had a feeling he wouldn't be the only one either, going by Lamorak and Dinadan's smirks.

She was, indeed, the strangest and less Roman-like Roman woman Gaheris had ever met and there was no bigger compliment he could give to any of them.

"Now, how about hearing one of those songs?" Dinadan asked, showing once again that there were really good reasons for Gaheris to appreciate his compatriot.

"Indeed I agree." He egged on, siding (as always in these kind of matters) with the older man.

**-§-break-§-**

It was a singing voice that woke Tristan up.

The smell of herbs, paste and old blood told him where he was and the stiffness and pain in his chest and side reminded him of why he was there. The Healing Rooms of the Roman Fort in Briton. He had been injured in a fight against Woads. There was a singing voice coming near the chamber.

Opening his eyes, not moving yet from his supine position, Tristan turned his head enough to see the door and steal a glance at Gawain's bed. The other knight was awake, a knife in one hand and a piece of wood in the other, whittling away at it. His eyes weren't on the wood, though, but had rose to look at the door too.

Whoever was singing, a woman by the sound of her voice, was doing it in a language that Tristan couldn't understood. He spoke the language of his people and Latin and the words weren't in either. He had heard the chattering of woads and the language of the local Britons and while there were some similarities between the last one and the one who was being sung, the cadence was different and no word rang familiar.

It was a strange song, neither happy nor sad. It was sung as if it was a strange mix of questioning and encouraging at the same time. Tristan had never heard anything of the kind, in many a sense, and it made him curious enough to slowly props himself up and sitting. Gawain had to had noticed the action but, even though he did, he said nothing instead turning his head as if he was trying to hear better. It was like this, sitting and looking towards the door that the singing found them when she entered the room, the sound of heavier feet betraying the fact that she wasn't alone.

Iseult was perched on his glove, Tristan noticed her before anything else. His Iseult was perched on the woman's forearm and after a few moments in which he tried to piece together the familiar sight of his falcon perched on his glove with the fact that neither were on his arm, Tristan finally took notice of the woman.

She was tall, he realized, as tall as Lancelot and a little shorter than he himself. She had a braid of brown hair and a full figure, pleasurable to see even in the slightly out of measure blue dress (too light for the temperature outside) she was wearing. Her face was slightly flushed and she looked embarrassed but she smiled at both of them as she continued her singing.

She was wearing summer shoes, completely wrong for the weather and season, and he was almost sure that she was wearing breeches under her dress as he had caught a glimpse of leather under it while she walked in. Her left hand and forearm were hide from view by his heavy glove but he could see her right and it was bandaged, bloody on the fingertips of her hand, that held a small sack. Tristan felt a pang of guilt at the sight.

Iseult spread her wings and then flew the little distance that was between the two of them, perching herself on the arm he automatically raised to host her. The talons dig in his arm a little but Tristan had been in far worse pain and barely noticed it, not even wincing. He caressed her, as gentle as he always did, feeling as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders now that he was able to see in person that she had healed well.

It had been in his defense that Iseult had been hurt, badly hit on the wing by one of the woads when she had attacked him, though not before she had gouged his left eye out. Tristan had held onto her for the whole ride back, refusing to allow anyone to held her for him until he had been forced to separate from her at the Healing Rooms.

A clapping sound drew his attention from his own falcon to the door, where Dinadan and Lancelot stood smiling, Gaheris's blond head and Lamorak's grey one visible behind the two of them. The girl blushed harder and pressed her lips together, clearly fighting a smile of her own.

"Now you have to tell us what it does say!" Lancelot declared as Gawain showed him out of the way and let himself in the room, greeting his brother happily. Dinadan voiced his agreement even as he entered the room and nodded at Tristan, who nodded back at him noting the rabbit carcass the other knight was holding on to, for some reason.

"Gaheris, what's going on? Isobel, a pleasure to see you again and less close mouthed even." Gawain questioned as he sent the woman one of his far too bright smiles. The knight had enlightened Tristan about the visit he had received while Tristan was still unconscious, when the woman had come to get her hands looked at by Jols. Tristan's eyes went back to her right hand, to the bloody bandages that were the result of Iseult's fury.

"Gawain." The woman said, nodding at the knight as she backed away from the door a little as Lancelot entered the room. She seemed to be careful to keep distance between the two of them, though it certainly wasn't out of fear. It appeared to be more of a precaution measure, a conscious one, and Tristan pieced it to Dinadan's tale of Lancelot's failed attempts at bedding her. So she _was_ attracted but for some reason she was reluctant to allow herself to become the next conquest of Tristan's fellow knight. Interesting.

"Isobel was delighting us with one of the songs her mentor taught her, brother!" Gaheris smiled, clearly pleased with the tale he was going to recount. Lancelot immediately inserted himself in it while Lamorak shook his head and nodded at both Tristan and the girl before he took off without even entering the room.

Tristan tuned the two of them out, especially because Dinadan had closed the distance between him and the girl and had clasped a hand on her shoulder, leading her towards Tristan's bed.

"Tristan, this is Isobel. She has a Roman name but Isobel is a far better one. She is the maid I told you about, the one to whom Iseult took a shine to." Dinadan told him and Tristan covered his instinctive laughter with a nod and an intake of breath. Laughing was bad for his stitches and he doubted Dinadan had picked on the fact that his smell was bothering the girl, though it was clear to Tristan what with the way she was subtly trying to breath with her mouth and keep her head away from Dinadan's body.

"Isobel, this sour bastard is Tristan. He's the only other person Iseult wouldn't claw to death if she was to live with them." Dinadan went on, as Isobel smiled and nodded at him, her eyes going at his bandages for a moment before they focused on his fingers on Isobel's feathers, as she lowered the little sack she had been holding down on the pavement. He nodded back at her, though he wasn't sure if she noticed it.

She was beautiful, in Tristan's eyes.

Not beautiful in a way a woman was when men couldn't take their eyes off her but beautiful in the way normal women were able to be. She was paler than she would have been had she worked all day outside, but not as pale as someone who had died in the snow from the cold (like the Roman women that never put foot out of their houses were). She was the kind of woman a man could wake next to without having to think about how much he had payed for such a beauty or how he had managed to get her in his bed. Not that Tristan had ever had such a woman in his bed, but that was how he supposed one would have felt in those cases.

Her figure was full in the right points but there was no fat (who would have betrayed a richer upbringing or living) and he had no doubt that, in the right dress, the wiry muscles she was bound to have would have been at least a little noticeable instead of completely hidden by view. She was proportioned for her height and had nice hands, with strong fingers that weren't too long.

"I want to see what Iseult did to you." He told her, blunt and to the point. Her eyes jumped from his hand on Isobel's feathers to his face and she gulped, before she nodded a little too quickly for his taste. She didn't seemed scared of him, which was good because Tristan didn't want her to be, but she did seem wary of him, which he supposed couldn't be helped what with the way he had just talked to her with.

"Relax. He's being nice, for him." Dinadan told her, his hand on her shoulder squeezing it a little as he remained at her side. He was clearly amused and beamed down at her when she raised her eyes to him, as if searching for confirmation.

It irked Tristan a little, that Dinadan had already managed to make himself into someone she could trust. While Dinadan was his friend, the best he had, it always grated on Tristan's nerves how easily the man was able to gather the trust of those around him while Tristan had to work hard and for weeks (if not more) to get the same result that Dinadan had with a chat and a smile.

"I'm sorry, it's just …" She hesitated for a moment, her teeth gnawing a little at her bottom lip in a way that made Tristan cock stir a little, before she went on.

"I was really afraid of how you would react if Iseult didn't healed right and I built all those thoughts in my mind about what was going to happen once we met if what I did wasn't enough for your expectations. I wanted to be ready for it, because I wasn't going to allow you to do anything to her even if she hadn't healed well." She took a breath and went on, before her word could sunk in and well before he and Dinadan could react to them.

"I would have taken care of her myself for as long as she lived, in case, because it would have been my fault and she is a pain in the ass but I wasn't going to allow anyone to harm her but then she healed and a _thousand_ things happened and I had no time to think about what I wanted to tell you now. So now I'm a little nervous, that's all. It's nothing personal, I'm _really_ sorry." Her voice rushed out, low in volume as if she didn't want anyone but him and Dinadan hearing it, slightly panting by the end of it.

For a moment, Tristan could just look at her, completely speechless. It wasn't often that he found himself being so, for all that he wasn't a talker. He just preferred to think about things and give his opinion only when it was necessary, reserving his talking for either jokes or important things. Actually being left without words to use was a quite new experience for him, one that left him feeling as if someone had managed to sneak a counter-attack through his defense.

_She_ had been worried _Iseult,_ willing to take _care_ of her.

_She_ being worried about _his_ reaction wasn't all that surprising. Tristan had a deep bond with his falcon and was aware of both the reputation of the Sarmatians and his own (neither positive, especially between the Romans). He would have indeed reacted nastily (to put it as lightly as it could be put) if a Roman maid had botched up Iseult wing and crippled her.

But... being worried for _Iseult_, after his falcon had been the one to scratch her hands up so bad that apparently she was going to be left with at least one scar from it? Preparing herself to weather his wrath and defend Iseult's right to live even when crippled, going as far as taking the burden of caring for her on her own shoulders? _Apologizing_ for both her nervousness and for having been so overwhelmed by events that would have floored men far stronger and more experienced than her, less of all a common Roman woman?

That was completely unexpected, even ridiculous, as Dinadan booming laugh underlined. It made her flush, clearly embarrassed, and her teeth started again on the gnawing, pushing Tristan to keep his eyes off her lips and instead look at her eyes. Not into them, because she was looking down towards Iseult, who had reacted to Dinadan's laughter with a combative screech, clearly unsettled by it.

"It's all right. Nothing to worry about." Isobel soothed towards the falcon, hesitating just for an instant before her hand came up to ever so gently caress the animal's wings, not touching Tristan's ones but coming close enough that he was able to feel the heat coming from them. It woke up the _want_ in him.

It made Tristan's mood sour that Lancelot had seen her first, met her while he was lying here, completely useless. He was the one indebted to her, for more than one debt, in more than one way and for more than one reason. He was the one whose falcon had chosen this girl as a female worthy of her own attention. He should have been the one with the right to tell the others she was his to take and none of them should interfere in it. Him, not Lancelot.

At the same time, he was relieved that Lancelot had met her first and set his aim on her as the one he wanted to bed next. Lancelot, despite what his reputation said, was not one to take a lover and then discard her in the morning (prostitutes excepted but with those it was a given). He had had far less lovers than he was credited with and Tristan had never seen any of them leaving his room unsatisfied or bearing painful marks on their skins. Lancelot was a man who knew how to treat women.

Tristan didn't. Where Lancelot was capable of gentleness and affection, Tristan was a hard man whose only gentleness was reserved for Iseult. No woman, except for those he paid, wanted to share his bed because he was as violent as a lover as he was on a battlefield. Even between the prostitutes, only a couple actually enjoyed fucking with him and they were into pain as much as he was, wild things with dark looks and sneering smiles.

While he _wanted_ her, felt the _want_ starting to gnaw at his insides even as he reached with his hand toward hers and took it between his fingers, he was also relieved that she was not to be his. She was not the kind of woman to lie with a man like him.

Ignoring her surprised gasp, Tristan turned her hand in his own and looked at the bloodied points of her fingertips in silence. In the corner of his eye, Dinadan stopped laughing and put the rabbit carcass down on his bed, starting to talk to her. Tristan paid his words no heed, watching instead how Dinadan helped her by pushing up her sleeve, just enough that he could undo the knot Jols had tied on her bandages.

It was time to assess exactly how much damage Iseult had done to the girl she had now clearly adopted as her own.

**-§-break-§-**

Dinadan knew the look in Tristan's eyes and it gave him pause, though he didn't show it.

Coming from the same tribe, he had known Tristan before his own departure for Briton and had been saddened and overjoyed in equal parts when his friend had turned up one year later with the next group of Sarmatians kids.

To most, outside or their tightly knit group, Tristan came off as a ruthless killer, a bloodthirsty barbarian with a dark sense of humor. Inexpressive, too sour to bother give attention to him or too scary to keep their eyes on. They had neither the interest nor the will to get to know the other man and they were fast to label and then forget him until they were obliged to acknowledge his existence.

To most, inside their tightly knit group, Tristan came off as a good brother in arms, a little taciturn but with a dry sense of humor and an uncanny ability for hunting and scouting. Hard to read, understandably sour and to be respected for how he was. They didn't had the connection Dinadan, Tristan and Lucan (the other boy from their tribe and their closest friend) shared and they didn't search for it, because they had their own between themselves.

To Dinadan and Lucan, Tristan was as close as a brother by blood, thoughtful but not as silent as he may have actually been had he wanted to and with a dark, dry sense of humor that was as much of a killer as Tristan's sword. An open book, not as sour as much as understanding and resigned to their fate and to be as respected as looked out for.

Tristan was a hard man, made harder by their life, and sorely lacking the ability to interact with people in a normal way. Tristan was wild, in the inside. An untamed stallion, in Lucan words. A feral wolf, in Dinadan's own. It was just under the surface of him, kept in check by the chains he had chosen and learned to impose on himself to keep his darker part as much at bay as he was able to.

Tristan was a son of the nature, as strong as a natural event could be. Neither benign nor malign. He was perfectly able to feel and express, in his own way, positive emotions. There was no doubt in Dinadan that Tristan was much more man than beast (in complete opposite to Tristan's father who was more of a bloodthirsty beast than anything else).

The concepts of honor, duty, respect, responsibility were what formed the chains that Tristan used to bind himself down, along with many others. It was why the look in the man eyes while he looked at Isobel first and then at her hand gave him pause instead of actually worrying him.

Tristan _wanted_ Isobel. This was not the kind of want that a normal man would have felt. This was a much more primitive and deep thing, Tristan's instinct rearing it's head up and telling the man that this woman should have been _his_. It was a proprietary thing, a deep and savage feeling that wasn't going to ever leave Tristan, not even if he were to take her as his own.

Never to be satisfied or placated, it was the same kind of _wanting_ that made Tristan the ruthlessly efficient warrior that he was, the cold-blooded killer who enjoyed to kill for his own pleasure and not only for duty. It wasn't a negative emotion, on its own, but it was one that was linked with the possessive strike the width of Briton that the man possessed. It was the one that was linked with the fierce protectiveness that Tristan had always displayed for both Iseult, his horse, Lucan and Dinadan himself.

Tristan respected all of them, trusted them to fight their own battles on their own, but that didn't stop the man from taking care of them in his own way. Dinadan knew it because, in that, they were made from the same mold. What was theirs was precious and irreplaceable, to be respected and took care of.

But no matter how much he may have _wanted_ her, Lancelot had seen her first and Tristan would sooner cut off his arm than move on a woman one of his brothers wanted and had dibs on (because, in the end, that was what it was). Tristan held his brothers in too much esteem, had too much respect for them and too much honor as a man to ever try anything with Isobel and that was why Dinadan wasn't worried.

Had she been free and unattached, he would have worried. Should she show signs of actually not wanting Lancelot, instead of just being wary of the idea, he would have worried. Were her time as Lancelot's lover come to an end, sooner or later, Dinadan was going to worry. Right now? To acknowledge it just gave him pause for a couple of seconds, before he refocused his attention.

While Dinadan made up the bandages he had undid, he looked at the healing cuts (his eyes immediately found the one that was going to scar and it didn't look pretty at all) on Isobel hands, wrists and forearms. Tristan had gently dislodged Iseult, who had hopped down on the bed and settled on the man knee, and was not intently studying those same cuts.

Isobel was explaining that Iseult had been furious at being separated from Tristan and she had had no idea on how to handle there, so she had done her best and washed her before she had bound her wing with one of her undershirts. It was far more than what Dinadan would have done for any beast trying to carve him up. Had it been him, with an unknown falcon, he would have snapped the beast's had and be done with it, fuck the owner's rage. Possibly he would have asked in the kitchen if someone was up to roast it for him.

The way the girl kept talking, explaining as if she felt the need to apologize for her inexperience, was clearly getting to Tristan. The man had already felt indebted with her for taking care of Iseult, guilty for the state her hands and forearms were in and guiltier still for the fact that she was going to be scarred.

To discover that the woman who had received them wasn't the kind to either rub it in his face or fidget in silence until she was free to escape his presence... well it wouldn't have surprised Dinadan if Tristan had wanted her.

The fact was that she was much more than simply that. She was not an obnoxious typical Roman, nor a snotty little shit. She wasn't frail as one may have thought and she was no delicate flower that was going to be ripped apart by the first storm to come upon it. Isobel was a survivor, a strong woman who had the potential to become as much of a warrior as some of the girls in Dinadan's tribe had been, without losing the traits that made her feminine.

Many warrior women fought and acted as if they had to be considered on pair with the man around them. They demanded respect for their deeds, respect that Dinadan thought had to be given to them but should have been given freely instead of being _expected_ by them. They grew up hard and arrogant because they thought it was what was needed from them. Not all of them were that way, but many had those characteristics which didn't endeared them to Dinadan at all.

Isobel, instead, didn't acted as if she was due any respect. She took what was given to her, expected not to be treated like a whore or something that one would find in a muddy ditch (like Galahad had hilariously discovered at his own expenses) and worked for the rest, never asking anyone for anything.

Many woman, especially the Roman ones, took many things for granted. A certain level of respect for the part they did for their families or people, an acknowledgment of their work and a given excuse for most of their actions. Dinadan almost snorted at the thought. As if he would ever look at a woman and think "defenseless, innocent, little thing I should give her a free pass" just because she had breasts and lacked a cock.

It had been one of the reasons why Isobel decision of taking advantage of her status as _sui iris_ to learn more than she would have been otherwise allowed but, at the same time, not to take advantage of her nature as a woman to excuse herself from the consequences of the brawl in Vanora's tavern had impressed him. Here was a woman who asked to be seen as a man and took her punishment as one without breaking a sweat.

While Dinadan himself wasn't attracted to her (too plain for him and he liked blondes like her Briton friend more anyway) he had _respect_ for her and that was more than almost all women in the Fort could claim, from his part. On top of this, Iseult had clearly taken a liking to the woman, which was as impossible as getting a whole month of summer without rain in this blasted land.

To be honest, he wasn't surprised at all that Tristan _wanted_ her as his.

As a friend of the man, though, and aware as he was of how rough and still inexperienced Tristan actually was with both his feelings and women, it reassured him to know that, thanks to Lancelot's cock and its interest in getting between Isobel's legs and then inside her, Tristan wasn't going to try and take her for himself.

Still, that meant that Isobel had gained a fierce protector and, Dinadan would have bet his sword on it and hatchet on it, a new shadow that was going to keep an eye on her for years to come, either openly or from the other shadows. The how depended on whether she liked it or not, since the decision wasn't nor had ever been in Isobel's hands.

And that was before she got a hold of her little sack and opened it, taking out an apple as she explained to Tristan that she had heard about him liking them in the kitchen and had though he would have liked some.

By the gods, was the girl trying to get jumped by his friend or what?

-§-break-§-

**Author Note**

I'M BACK!

Hello to everyone and oh God, I've missed you all and this story SO much, you have no idea! I'm sorry for the fucking huge delay in posting but I had an accident and I injured the muscles in the back of my left shoulder. It had to be immobilized and I was ordered complete rest and no moving it, which precluded me from typing too. Almost all of this chapter has been typed one handed, which was a pain the ass, let me tell you.

Now I'm back though and I'm going to update far sooner this time around! God, the reactions to the previous chapter and all the reviews have been absolutely wonderful! I hope the new one is as well received an that you all like what I'm doing with the story!

You get two new characters (the Gauls) and two new POVs (Tristan and Dinadan) this time around! You may have noticed that this is less of a dialogue story and more of an action / thought story. This is a deliberate choice on my part, one I hope you won't mind. There will be dialogue, there has been in past chapters and there was in this one, but the dialogue won't be the focus of the story as you may have gathered by now XD

About the songs and the language Isobel referred to... she was talking about modern english. I didn't put it down in the text because it came out during other people POV. I had been sitting on this one little twist since the first chapter, I admit, and I hope you liked how I handled the issue.

The song that Isobel was singing was "If Today Was Your Last Day" by Nickelback, you can find it on YouTube. While she knows quite a lot of naughty songs (including a nice selection of Irish Pub songs) she had expected the knights to ask her for a translation and so she went with one she thought they could like (even if for now she managed to avoid having to translate it in Latin XD).

I know that we have 'lost' some characters between Gaheris and Tristan's POV but there's a reason if they aren't there anymore, I didn't just forget them!

Thank you very much for listening to my rambling. The Historical Notes will be brief this time and, as always, under my answers to all of your fabulous reviews and my thanks to those who decided to follow me and my story. Thank you all _so_ very much!

**forestreject**: Thank you very much for adding my story to your favorites! Ahahahah, yes the brawl was fun to write! I kept picturing the mayhem in my head and how no one was actually sure of what was going on most of the time as I was sketching it out. Iseult is back and I'm actually having much fun with Jols, we will see him again soon. His role in the movie wasn't really defined but my idea of him makes him fit quite well with the Roman medical units, especially since they went on the field and we do see him go with the knights in the movie, when they depart to go get the Pope's nephew.

**Naranja SanDiego**: Thank you too for making my story one of your favorites and thanks a lot for the compliment :)

**Spooks94**: Welcome back from your holidays! I hope you liked the three new chapters and that they helped tide you over until this one popped up!

**Soaring Hawk**: I'm really happy that you like both the story and the Historical Notes! Isobel and Iseult interaction actually became one of the things I like more in the story! I am also quite satisfied that you like the faces I choose for my OCs. I'm sorry for leaving you hanging so long without an update but I couldn't help it. Writing one-handed had been really hard and my shoulder made me see stars most of the time so I was confined at bed rest and I'm not writing from a laptop, sadly!

**Kristall**: In this story I'm often choosing to skip on dialogue or scenes to instead recount them through the eyes of those who where here. The brawl, the meeting with Arthur, Isobel handling of the skill exchange in this chapter. While a well written scene has his reasons, I find that the flow of this story works better if I deal and concentrate on how people perceive what happens instead. I'm really satisfied that it's working for you and the other readers :D! And Iseult has some … pretty extreme opinions about the people in the Fort XD (I'll give you a hint: most of them have an "Useless" in their description). The dislike is from both sides of the equation ;)

**DGfleetfox**: Always a pleasure to hear from you! Hee, Gawain wants to see the action dammit! Especially if Galahad is on the receiving end of it! I could almost hear him grumble about people being inconsiderate of his need to be entertained in my head XD. It was a pleasure to give you the OCs. The two Gauls should pop up a few minutes after I've posted the story on my profile if everything goes right, so you'll have their faces too! I've looked Sally Hawkins up, as you suggested, and I actually find her to be a good fit for Isobel so I will probably change the photos on the profile from Michelle Ryan to her, thank you very much for the very appreciated help! Hee, I'm happy you like the knights! I actually searched for men that had been in medieval / fantasy flicks so that I could put out people that looked the part (though I had to settle with a photo of Karl Urban where he's smiling because when he was Eomer he didn't smiled _at all,_ damn him). Sean Bean was also in the pretty good Black Death, who is pretty recent (one or two years old) and I highly recommend it to you. The photo on the profile should be from that film, if I'm not wrong. I did consider Thomas Jane for one of the knights, but I decided to keep it in my 'for future characters' list (so you may find him popping up in the future) and went instead with James Franco because in his last Spiderman movie he had half of his face covered by burn scars and that's the kind of scars I had imagined on Lucan's face (there's a story for them but it will come out in the story at some point so you will have to wait to discover what happened to him). I want one of them to be heavily scarred, because it happened at the time.

**Criya Astleon**: Thank you very much for adding my story to your alerts!

**The Mouse's Rose**: Thanks to you too for adding my story to your list of alerts!

**Sama-Bama**: I am really happy that you decided to put my story in your favorites, thanks!

**TwistedInferno**: It put a huge smile on my face to be added to both your favorites and alerts, thank you ever so much for it!

**DokoDoko**: Thank you for adding me to your Alert list :D

**Victoria**: Happy Birthday, dolcezza (dolcezza = sweetness, italian term of endearment)! I'm really happy to have been able to finish this chapter in time to get it posted on your birthday! I hope you'll like it and will be able to consider it a worthy b-day present ;) How old are you? (It's just curiosity, I'm 26 as of the last 26th of December). I'm happy that you appreciate the work I've been putting in the story (which, yes, is load of it as you aptly noted XD). If you ever have any suggestion or correction to make please let me know. I haven't studied much of Roman and Latin history except for the things I researched by myself, which are more about culture than anything else, though I do know that I will be tweaking history itself here and there (especially since most historians agree on the fact that Arthur didn't actually exist and disagree on practically anything else XD).

**ReinetteNarbonne**: I saw the notification just in the nick of time before I posted, wow! Thank you so very much for adding my story to your favorites!

Just one Historical Note this time folks!

**Historical Notes**

_Music at the time of the Roman Empire_

While we know some things about the Greek music, little to nothing have survived in this contest from any of the periods of the Ancient Rome. It is believed that Roman music was mostly composed of single melodies so many instruments following the exact same track instead of an harmony of instruments (to put it simply, no modern concept of orchestra but instead all the instruments following the same series of notes at the same time).

They had no known method to note down music and there are no reports of musicians working off any kind of partition. Nonetheless they had, from what is known, blown instruments, plucked strings instruments and percussion instruments.

Music was important for them, with instruments used to announce gatherings or big events and even, depending on the place and occasion, huge numbers of instruments forming a sort of orchestra and working at the same time (like the trumpets we can hear in the Gladiator movie in the Coliseum). It was also a big part of religious rites and feasts.

That said, singing existed even at the time, though it was usually done a cappella (like Vanora's song in the movie). Military cadences A little tidbit from one of the texts on Roman Military I read: it's believed military cadences may have existed too, if only because it helped coordinating the soldiers as they marched and kept them distracted from the weight they were loaded with (which was _a lot_).


	10. Where various decisions are taken

Tristan looked at the apple Isobel was still offering him, up to her face, at Lancelot cloak around her shoulders and then back down to the apple. Suddenly thankful of both Iseult's presence on his knee and the pain from his wounds reminding him it was a bad idea to move, he reached out with his hand and took the apple from hers, still free of bandages.

"Is something wrong?" She asked, looking from him to Dinadan. "I just wanted to give him..." She started towards Dinadan, then turned back to him. "I just wanted to give you a few apples to eat while you're here. It doesn't have any kind of deep meaning, I _swear_. It's just ..." She hesitated trying to think of a way to define what she had wanted to express with her gift. "Just a nice thought." She concluded, starting to look flustered, possibly because both him and Dinadan had yet to say anything since the apples had made their appearance.

A fast glance over her side towards Gawain's bed showed that Gaheris and Lancelot were both engrossed in the tale they were still narrating to the injured knight and Tristan breathed a little easier. He was in no shape to deal with any kind of reaction Lancelot could have had, had he seen the little offering.

"A nice thought, with no deeper meaning." He repeated towards her in a low voice, making it an affirmation even though it was more of a question than anything else. She nodded, opening her mouth as if to add something and then closing it, clearly thinking it was better if whatever had went through her mind didn't came out.

Still, _she_ had given _him_ a _gift_ of _apples_. Tristan had never received gifts from anyone, because there had never been anyone trying to curb his favor by giving him things he either desired or other thought he could desire. No woman had ever even entertained the thought of gifting him anything, much less his favorite fruit.

It may have been a 'nice thought' for her, but Tristan couldn't help but see it as something much more important. She may not have intended any deeper meaning with her choice, but he couldn't help but take notice of the fact that she had remembered which fruit was his favorite and had spent money buying him a little bag of _nice_ apples.

Tristan had long become used to either take them out of the trees by himself or rescue them from the ground. More often than not the fruits were ruined or had to be freed from a worm or two. The apples she had presented him with were of better quality than the completely wild ones, looking instead like the ones that were stocked and sold in the market.

_She_ had _spent_ money on _him_. Never before had a woman found Tristan worth enough to go and spend money on him. Even less hard earned money, like hers were (Tristan had paid attention to Dinadan's recounts and drew his conclusion from them). She may have been wearing Lancelot cloak, but she had taken enough notice of him to give him a 'nice thought'.

Looking up at her, Tristan offered a smile.

**-§-break-§-**

Holy fuck, _Tristan_ knew how to _smile_.

Holy fuck, Tristan's smile was … oh _holy fuck_.

**-§-break-§-**

Dinadan felt the strong urge to either headbutt the nearest wall or go out and lay waste to a training partner or two. Possibly even track down either Lamorak or Burkhard and get in a brawl with them. Anything but just standing there, looking at the disaster that was unfolding just under his eyes (and with a completely unaware Lancelot standing just on the other side of the room.

Apples and smiles, by the Gods, and Iseult standing on Tristan's knee looking mighty pleased, the overgrown sparrow.

Taking a split second decision, Dinadan put his hand back on Isobel's shoulder and tried to drag her attention away from Tristan and to himself. She did turn her head towards him but her eyes remained fixed on Tristan's face, so that was half a victory, but enough for what he had in mind.

"You have a free afternoon, according to Arthur orders, haven't you? I was thinking we may get a head-start on your sword training by trying to find the right kind of sword for you." He proposed, making it more of an order than a real offer. _That_ got her attention, her eyes turning to him, but, sadly, Tristan suddenly decided that he wanted to do conversation, of all things.

"You asked Dinadan to give you sword lessons, Isobel?" He queried, making a point of saying her name since it wasn't really necessary to put it in. Instead, Tristan spoke it out (for the first time since Dinadan had told him how the maid was named) making it sound as if he was testing it on his tongue.

Off course her attention went right back to the little idiot. She also pressed her teeth in her lip again and nervously tucked a strand of hair behind her ear (a gesture that Dinadan had seen her do quite a lot whenever Lancelot got too close or too seductive for her to handle and, as such, as big as a sign that the situation was going down the drain could get).

"Yes, I will teach him stitching and he will teach me sword-fighting. He and a few others offered to trade skills with me, to help me out." She explained and Tristan nodded, still smiling at her. Fuck, the situation had completely spun out of handle in a handful of seconds. Stupid, fucking 'nice thoughts' and stupid, fucking apples and stupid, fucking Tristan for loving the stupid, fucking fruit. Since when was Tristan capable of smiling so openly to a woman? For long periods of time at that?

"Are there any skills you desire to learn that haven't traded for, yet? I am in your debt and I would gladly repay you, by helping you. Free of trade." Tristan offered and, by the gods, that was like more than Dinadan had heard him say in the last week, taking in the other three phrases he had spoke to the girl already.

"Ah … archery, how to read tracks and orientate myself in the woods to name a few, but the last two will come with my trade of choice." Isobel answered, with a friendly smile and a dark blush coloring her cheeks. Dinadan was seriously considering calling on Lancelot because Tristan's eyes were shifting from interested to predatory and that bode for the worse.

"Which is?" Tristan inquired, his smile turning from honest and open (something Tristan's smiles had rarely been since they had left the Sarmatians plains behind) to predatory when he heard her intake of breath. Dinadan glanced over his shoulder and yes, Lancelot was busy razzing on Gaheris. Couldn't the man pay attention when it was needed for him to?

"Hunting." The girl replied and Dinadan practically _heard_ the sound of the silent, triumphant howl Tristan's wildest part must have released at that word. Isobel was clearly about to talk again, to explain her choice for sure, so Dinadan didn't wasted any other time and opened his mouth, to call on to Lancelot.

"I will teach you. I _am_ a hunter and, this way, I'll start doing something to repay you from what you have done for me. Free of trade." It was a decision, an irrevocable one that would not bear neither opposition nor refusal.

For a moment, a moment alone, Dinadan _prayed_ the gods to give Tristan the wisdom necessary to see why this was an horrible idea, _prayed_ the gods to let Isobel see that it was necessary for Dinadan's continued peace of mind to refuse the irrefutable.

"Oh, if it doesn't make your duties any heavier or complicated I would very much like that."

Son of a horny mare.

**-§-break-§-**

If there was one thing Lancelot wouldn't be accused of was a lack of adaptability.

Since he was a kid, the curly haired knight had showed a quick mind and a keen ability in adapting to the circumstances and situations around him, especially when he found himself needing to in the pursue of any kind of objective. It was what had made him and Arthur get along, once they've gotten over the fact that Arthur was Half-Roman and Lancelot's commander, and one of the reasons he had taken to strategy like a fish to the water.

The seductive approach have failed. The serious one had been foiled by Galahad idiocy. Friendly, for now, was working well enough if one considered the fact that now Isobel was not only willing to talk with him but also to do so without looking at him like he was one step away from jumping her, which he wasn't. Well, not as publicly and suddenly and she had appeared to believe him capable of.

So Lancelot stuck to the friendly approach and offered to escort her to the training grounds so that she could see what she was going to have to work with and in. He even went as far as to extend the invitation to Gaheris (who off course accepted, because he was a miserable bastard) and Dinadan (who muttered something about taking her Armamentarium later), so that she would be more at ease. Even considering that Tristan's falcon was clearly coming with them too, at least judging by the way it had immediately perched itself on Isobel's wrist when she had made to leave the Healing Rooms.

Even though it was still early in the afternoon a cold wind had picked up and Lancelot took the occasion to, once again, take off his cloak and give it to her. This way even if the voice hadn't gone around yet about her coming into the tavern huddled in it, the news of the brawl may have obscured that little but fundamental detail, it was going to go around now, about her coming to the Training Fields with it. It was a little under-handed but Lancelot planned to win, not to be fair.

The biggest non-fortified part of the Fort, the Training Fields were kept in use for all day by the infantry units doing inside training, the cavalry units perfecting maneuvers, both kind of units running simulations (since Saxons had cavalry and Woads hadn't, and both kind of units could use the exercise) the singular knights sparring on and off their horses and soldiers sparring too. The units rotated through exercises in and out of the Fort, to keep the soldiers familiar not only with the maneuvers but with the local terrain too.

Lancelot took over the role of explaining all of this to Isobel, while Dinadan and Gaheris provided a running commentary in the background about the soldiers they were familiar with and what they thought of the maneuvers put in action. It lead to all three of them agreeing on their relief that Arthur had allowed them to develop personal styles of fighting with personalized weapons.

This, in turn, lead to them explaining to Isobel that Arthur would have been well within his rights had he decided to keep them confined to the Roman weapons and fighting style. Instead, Arthur had given both them and the Gauls liberty to develop the fighting styles they had been taught the basics of before they had been 'enlisted' by the Romans. It was why Lancelot was allowed his dual wielding style, Tristan and Lucan their single sword style from their tribe, Dinadan went in battle with an hatchet and a sword, Gawain never rode out without his mace and each of the others had his own style, which for the Gauls was very centered around axes and broadswords like the one Burkhard used.

It was after explaining this that, under the ever watchful eyes of the Roman officers (who hadn't taken their attention off them since they had arrived to the Training Grounds), Lancelot inquired about Isobel choosing Dinadan as the one who teach her sword-fighting.

"I mean no offense to Dinadan but wouldn't you be comfortable with something less heavy than dual wielding a sword and an hatchet?" He inquired, stopping on the border of the Training Grounds and propping a shoulder against the wall of the Legionaries Quarters that delimited the space.

"I know it's not really Roman like, but I was thinking that while I heard many gossip about the various weapons you Sarmatian and Gauls wield, I didn't heard no one talk about dual wielding a short sword and a long knife and that's what actually I came up to, in my mind, when I thought about what my first mentor would have thought useful for me." Isobel admitted, in a low voice, as her eyes fixed on a manipolo who was busy practicing their testudo formation.

Iseult made to take flight and Isobel raised her left wrist, giving her the same kind of light push that Tristan used to encourage the animal to take flight. It was quite clear that she was a natural in dealing with the falcon, now that they had gotten over their original enmity and mutual dislike.

"Dinadan's style may be the nearest I can get to it and I actually expected him to only teach me how to use a sword, since I heard he's still perfectly able with a sword alone." She added, her eyes never leaving the soldiers and unaware of the looks the three knights were exchanging over her head.

While their conversation while heading at the marked had made clear that she _had_ given at least some thought to what she wanted to learn, not one out of the three of them had actually expected her to go and think about developing a style that suited her and her alone. That wasn't the kind of thinking any of them would have ever expected by any non-warrior woman. It actually made sense that she would have unconventional ideas, thanks to her unconventional past, but there was a difference between having unconventional ideas and straight-out possessing a warrior's mentality.

"I don't know anyone who fights with knives except for a few of the Gauls and they throw them, not uses them as a complement to a sword." Mused Gaheris, his eyes trailing in direction of a couple of Gaul knights who were in the middle of a spar on horseback.

"You may want to learn that too, maybe you can mention it to Cador or his brother the next time you see each other." Lancelot added, offering a friendly smile at Isobel, who dragged her eyes off the testudo long enough to look at him and offer a light smile in answer, her cheeks slightly reddened. Ah, progress finally!

"I would actually be happy to concentrate on archery and knife-throwing, but … I can't forget how close I came to die by the hand of Saxons and ..." She massaged her arm, Lancelot saw the way the cloak's cloth moved to accommodate her movement, and looked back at the testudo as she shrugged. "I just know it would be better if I know how to deal with a close-range enemy. Not that I would have half a chance like a Saxon but … just in case, at least I could _try_ to defend myself, instead of just …" She made a vague movement with her hand and her face twisted in a disgusted expression. "Stand there, like an easy prey." She concluded, her voice firm.

This time, Lancelot didn't exchanged glances with his two compatriots. Instead, his eyes remained firm on Isobel as he took her in, feeling like he was looking at her for the first time again. Disregarding her physical attributes, and her general femininity, he actually -_looked-_ at her as if would have while assessing another warrior. It was different, the way Lancelot weighed -_persons-_ and -_warriors-_. He searched for, and noted, different attributes and details depending on the category he was putting a person in.

Looking at Isobel as a -_person-_, Lancelot had immediately noted her generous breasts and her figure. The way she wasn't ugly but neither beautiful. The fact that her hair slightly rebelled to being braided in the long run. Her wide smile and the way she pressed her teeth in the lower lip when she got attracted or emotional. The tucking of hairs when she was nervous. The confidence in her step. Her voice, soft and pleasant, and how she was able to use it to carry her emotions when she was singing. How she held herself, defensive, and how much she looked like a scared animal when she retreated away from what she perceived as a menace. Her proclivity to panicking or getting worked up over things in private and how it contrasted with the calm dignity she had when facing the consequences of her actions in public. He had noted all these things and others still, but they were all related to who Isobel was as a woman.

Looking at Isobel as a -_warrior-_, instead, Lancelot eyes, and mind, went to the way she always kept note of her surroundings. How her posture never really shifted from loose to combat ready. There was no real tensing of muscle before any of her moves. He remembered how her attacks were fast and swift, starting soft and then turning harsh upon impact. She favored her right hand but she was able to fight with both, same with her legs. There was not a part of her body that she was above using while attacking. She reacted badly to unseen or unnoticed elements, keeping an eye on what went on around her. There were tell-tale signs of stress in the way she nervously kept shifting her balance from one feet to the other. No signs of repressed aggression. Her hands were calloused but not calluses that came from handling weapons. She always walked with a sort of little bounce in her step, that was remarkable because it remained present even when she should have been still. Her weight was shifted on the balls of her feet, kept off the point of her toes allowing for a stronger push forward when she moved. While no real treat for him, it all spoke of someone he would better keep an eye on, if only for the her potential, which wasn't to be ignored.

Lancelot blinked, registering the fact that Gaheris was in the middle of some anecdote or explanation about horseback fighting, and focused his attention from Isobel on the man that was approaching the four of them.

Octavius Lucullo, Roman piece of shit and all around pain the fucking ass. Surely on a mission to reel in the little lost female Roman lamb and drive her back in the fold.

Lancelot righted himself and -_casually_- moved half a step nearer to Isobel, while Dinadan closed the already little distance that was between him and the woman. _Over their dead bodies._

**-§-break-§-**

It was almost painful to see, how much the filthy barbarians that formed the Equites Legionis were hounding the Antonii woman. Horny dogs, really, no better than the filth they trudged on. They even acted like a pack of animals, shifting as if to challenge him in taking their prey from them.

Well, they were still just Equites Legionis soldiers and he was still the Hastatus Prior of the Tenth Cohort. He had a right and duty to keep those mangy barbarians away from the poor woman, who was quite obviously repulsed by their presence judging by the way, for a moment, she looked less than pleased by the tallest blond drawing closer.

He and Justinia had talked the night before and had concurred that the poor woman just needed to marry in a respectable Roman family, settle down in a less precarious and difficult situation than the one brought on by the role of _sui iris_.

Their son Aurelio, fourteen years old and of marriageable age, could use a wife who already knew the ropes and wasn't going to bungle things up with him or the house. By having him and the Antonii woman marry, they could also spare her the burden of trying and failing to live up to the terms Arthur, unreasonable as always, had put on her unprepared shoulders.

It was, though, a delicate matter and one not to be approached immediately. Octavius wouldn't have minded just offering the possibility, because which woman could refuse such a generous way out of the problems Arthur had made for her?, but Justinia had disagreed. Bring the woman to dinner, let her be reminded of what it meant to have a decent house and let her and the boy grow close. Let her be reminded of what it meant to be a Roman between Romans and she was going to be the one who came to them.

It was more subtle than what Octavius would have liked, but that was what women where for, after all. His wife had yet to lead him astray or to fail in one of her little schemes, so who was he to question her feminine ability to get her way?

With what he knew was a reassuring expression, Octavius closed the distance between himself and the Antonii woman, offering her a friendly smile. The Sarmatians around the woman looked darkly at him, their faces etched with the far too familiar wary look those dogs always had around decent Romans, but Octavius paid them no heed.

He wasn't there for _them_, he was there to keep an innocent woman out of their filthy clutches.

**-§-break-§-**

Isobel _had_ to be polite with Centurion Lucullo.

The man actually wasn't all that bad, for the time period canon. Yes he was a misogynistic, entitled, paternalistic, sexist bigot but, then, most of the men around her were exactly the same and she knew better than to expect them to be different, especially the Romans.

He clearly looked at her and saw what _he_ thought she was, instead of the person she actually was, but that didn't particularly disturb her. After all, it was far easier to give him the image he wanted to see and keep him as a potential ally that way. It wasn't even all that difficult, since she was aware of the limits and blinders his mentality had given him.

Still, she was a little relieved that the knights hadn't left her completely alone with him. While Gaheris had been dispatched from the beginning, sent by the Centurion to join the Gauls in their horseback exercises, Dinadan had been quick to claim that he had to find a weapon that fit her for their trading of skills. Lancelot had joined them under the pretense of having to get to the Praetorium, which was on the road to the Armamentarium apparently.

Once there Lancelot had asked her to join him and Arthur Castus after dinner to discuss the details of her education, a proposal that Isobel had immediately accepted and had brought a sour look on Centurion Lucullo's face for some reason. She wasn't sure if it was because he had plans of his own (in which case _ick_, she was quite glad for Lancelot's offer) or for a more personal reason (which meant she had better keep a particularly accurately screwed lid on her mouth) but she still took note for it.

They had left him there. Jols had appeared to be waiting for him, because Isobel caught a glimpse of the medic approaching the Sarmatian before Dinadan steered her away from the building and across the road, Centurion Lucullo distracting her with his questions about how she was adapting to living at Fort.

Concentrating her attention on the Roman, Isobel quickly forgot about Jols and Lancelot as she found herself under a barrage of questions about her life. Which was when, she found herself needing to remind herself that she -_had-_ to be polite with Centurion Lucullo, even if he was a busybody of the highest order. At least, she tried to console herself, he was a well-meaning busybody.

**-§-break-§-**

Jols hadn't managed to track down Lancelot the previous day and had missed another occasion when the man had come in not even a couple of hours before, as he had been busy with the weekly check of their supplies. Luckily, Gawain had informed him of the knight's intention to show Isobel the Training Fields, which was why Jols had been in waiting in the nearby Praetorium for Lancelot to show up.

"Jols. Something happened?" Lancelot immediately questioned, after a cursory nod in his direction. He and the knight weren't friends or anything of the sort, so it wasn't out of there for the man to imagine that Jols had come bearing bad news. Had Lancelot show up in Jols office, the medic would have started to run a mental check of who may have gotten into what straight away.

"No, I just need to talk to you." Jols shook his head, sending a covert glance towards a nearby _statores_, at his post, and then looking towards the inside of the building. "Nothing important, just the rundown of Tristan and Gawain's health." It wasn't unusual for Jols to do such reports, or for Lancelot to take them if they were about the other Sarmatians and Arthur (as the centurion insisted to be called) was too busy to receive them.

"Certainly, come with me." Lancelot nodded, eyes growing serious. He had clearly got the message Jols had tried to convey to him, luckily. They strode inside, Jols taking note of the fact that the cloak Isobel had been wearing h indeed have been Lancelot's. It had looked like it but he hadn't been sure until now, when he had gotten the chance to looking at the knight close up. Lancelot wasn't wearing it and he never went outside without, not during the cold months.

Lancelot took him to the Round Table Hall, taking care of closing the door behind himself. There they weren't going to be eavesdropped on, Jols knew, which was why he approved of Lancelot's choice. Looking at him, Jols noticed that the knight wasn't as freshly scrubbed as the previous day but he was still remarkably clean, for the Sarmatians standards. That little detail was a nice confirmation in support of his belief that he was doing the right thing.

"I needed to talk to you about Isobel." Jols deliberately used the bastardized form of her name. It was clear that the girl preferred to be referred at by it and Jols supposed it was either how her husband had called her or how the Britons back in her village had. The Romans would have called her with anything but her Roman name and it was clear she was quite used to the bastardized version.

"What about her?" Lancelot, half-way already turned towards him, arched his eyebrows and finished his turn quite sharply. He narrowed his eyes, who already were alert and serious, and nodded to Jols, clearly encouraging him to continue even as he moved to sit himself down on the chair he had been assigned at the Round Table.

"I have reason to believe she's stressing herself too much, pushing herself to her own limits to avoid accepting what happened to her village and her family." Jols spoke calmly, with measure words, allowing Lancelot the time to grasp what Jols was telling him before he continued.

"This is negative, because she _has_ to come to terms with it and she _can't_ be allowed to continue stressing herself. It's a bad way of living, and it will also leave her more easily exposed to illnesses and health problems." Again, Jols left time for the concepts to sink in. He had Lancelot undivided attention now, which was good because Jols wasn't going to repeat himself. Next time he found himself having to have this chat with Lancelot, Jols was going to wield one of his scalpels.

"I do not have her confidence and I am not the kind of man she will unburden to, but she will need to unburden and she will need to do it _soon_." Jols kept his eyes on Lancelot, willing the man's sharp mind to catch everything Jols was saying and hinting at. Judging by the way Lancelot back straightened and he pushed himself forward, leaning towards Jols, he was being successful.

"You are a warrior and a soldier, I will not insult you by telling you about the weight of losing one's family and see the reality of a razed village can weight on someone. You're a sharp man, I will not insult you by telling you how to act around someone who's seen as much too. You're not as bad with women as you've been made out to be, I will not insult you by telling you how to handle one. You are a honorable man, I will not insult you with threats or warnings about treating Isobel well. But you needed to be warned, because she'll need someone she can turn to and you _are_ pursuing her. In your way and not for marriage from what I know but still pursuing it is." Jols voice remained measured, his eyes fixed in Lancelot's own. He was here to deliver no judgment, to speak no reproach. He didn't care what Isobel and the knight did together, as long as she found in him someone she could trust with her secrets and fears.

Jols was sure, beyond any shade of doubt, that Lancelot was a man to be trusted, because of what he had observed during his interactions with the knight and because Arthur thought him so. It was enough for Jols to entrust Isobel's care to him.

Anyway, Lancelot was going to need Jols and his ability with scalpels, hooks, bone drills and surgery, sooner or later, so one way or another Jols had it covered, regardless of the results of this chat.

**-§-break-§-**

Ethelind was finding difficult to contain her giggling.

Lancelot of Sarmatia had enlisted -_her_- help in finding a -_gift_- to present to Isobel. Apparently, the two of them had a meeting with Commander Castus after dinner and, afterwards, the man hoped to get the time to sit down with Isobel, alone, and present her a gift, to make it clear how serious he was about pursuing her. As if lending her his cloak, the news had made the rounds from the Training Fields to the nearby kitchens in a matter of minutes, hadn't been enough. May the Gods bless his Sarmatian soul, the man was a -_prize_-.

She had figured out that he had sought her out to know more about Isobel, when she had found him waiting outside of the kitchens, but she would have never been able to figure out that he wanted to take such a serious step so soon in the pursuing phase, what with this not being a courting for marriage kind of thing (at least, he claimed it wasn't and she had doubted it on her own).

So now they were in the cavalry sleeping quarters and he was taking her to his room, door to be left open not to leave space to any kind of malicious gossip that could hurt the dear Isobel, to see if there was something that he could gift her. Something -_personal-_, something of his own because they had quickly concluded that what she desired, Isobel found a way to procure by herself and, anyway, a -_pursuing_- gift was as much about pleasing her as it was about making it clear who it had come from and what it meant. Oh this was all -_so_- exciting!

**-§-break-§-**

Cogibudnus looked at his lined up knives, feeling the weight of the one he had in his hand already. They were all gleaming, even in the fading light of the day, and he knew they were all razor sharp, having seen to it not even two days before.

Dinadan of the Sarmatians had dropped by, just before dinner, and left word that the _sui iris_ was interested in knife fighting and throwing, in addition to her desire to learn their Gaul language. While the woman had practically nothing, skill-wise, that could pick Cogibudnus interest, the offer she had apparently made of buying things at the convenient prices the Romans gave other Romans wasn't to be discarded.

Cogibudnus clothes were mended by those in charge of the laundry room, but he was going to need new ones sooner more than later and he didn't meant the kind of military issued clothes one was able to get at the Quaestorium but the fancier kind, made with better cloth and with fur on them just to name a couple of the perks.

The Legion provided to all his basic needs, but if he could spend his money on better things and he was in a position to be able to, why avoid doing it? Cogibudnus liked the little comfort he could find in being a little warmer, slightly better fed and treating himself a little better than the just the basics.

Still, knife fighting wasn't as simple of a skill at it was made out to be. Knife throwing, that was accessible to most, but treating it as a battle skill or learning it because you wanted to rely on it to save your life? That was different.

Fighting with knives meant that you had a throwing weapon, yes, but it also meant that when the distance failed you had to get up close and personal, much more than with a sword. Swords were longer and while you still had to use them in close combat, you still needed the space to move to properly handle one.

Knife fighting was as close as you could get, in terms of combat. It meant having the blood on the blade and on your hands and face too. It meant hearing the wet sound of the steel sliding in, feeling the spray of hot blood on your own skin, knowing the little sounds made by the dying and their screams too depending on where you had stabbed them. It was as dirty as one could get on a battlefield and Cogibudnus had no doubt that the _sui iris_ woman had no idea what she was asking for.

Knife fighting changed a person, weeding out those who didn't had the stomach to be cold-blooded killers like him. You needed guts and an iron stomach to look someone in the eyes and hear the gurgle of blood pouring out of his slitted throat. You needed the ability to shut down and stop caring, the _me or them_ kind of mentality that allowed him to work with knives.

Even more, a certain amount of bloodthirstiness was needed if you were to excel at it. You needed to be cold as ice and actually being able to relish a job well done, at the same time. One had to either see the beauty of a job well done and the neatness of the kill or give up and leave it be. It was one thing to kill a rabbit or a hare, another one to go out there knowing you were going to hunt down other human beings with no distance between you and them when it came down to it.

Cogibudnus didn't talk about it. He let the others think he was all about knife throwing in addition to using a sword but the truth was that, to him, knife fighting was an art and a love. While he wasn't going to deny the woman a taste of it, if only to get his hands on those clothes he had coveted for a while, he seriously doubted she would pass the tests he was going to enforce on her.

Women were just too damn gutless to take a knife in hand and kill someone, even a Saxon prisoner already condemned to death. It didn't matter that her village had been razed down by a group of them, she was going to fail. Cogibudnus didn't really mind. He was going to get his clothes either way.

**-§-break-§-**

Galahad looked at the meat in his plate, idly wondering if the Woman had had something to do with his dinner plate. He hoped not or, at least, that she didn't knew it was his, because he would had spat in it, had he been in her shoes.

He had slighted her, insulted her and the apology he had given her at Arthur's bidding had been less than completely honest. That had been before he had learned, from Percival who had heard about it from Jols, that the girl had been the one who had sew Gawain up, stitching his wounds neatly and tightly close and, basically, saving the man from bleeding to death again. It was why, according to Percival, she had been around when the Roman Healers had needed someone to dump Iseult to.

The Woman had saved Gawain's _life_ and he had shamed her publicly. Galahad felt like horse shit, a bastard and a Roman all rolled into one. Looking down at the meat in his plate he resolved to search her again and apologize properly and honestly, letting her know that he was in her debt and that this was going to mean that she had the possibility to ask him for a favor and he would grant it, no questions asked and no matter what that favor was.

It wasn't much, really, even if she decided to have him do something humiliating. Galahad had done far worse to her, insulting her and provoking her in reacting which had cut in her finances and put her straight on the spot. The whole Fort surely knew about what he had said to her and she had been dragged to the attention of the population of the Fort because of his actions, after months during which she had clearly liked her anonymity.

It was a start, Galahad was going to have to work his way up to be completely forgiven, but the Woman had had a hand in ensuring Gawain's continued survival. Galahad had a debt with her that far encompassed the one he was going to admit now.

If Gawain had died … it didn't bore thinking. Galahad swallowed the thoughts and looked down at his plate, trying to will his appetite back from where he had disappeared at the thought of Gawain being dead.

He wasn't successful.

**-§-break-§-**

As she looked at her husband consuming his dinner, Flavia wife of Tiberius Flavius reflected on the gullible nature of the men that surrounded her.

Flavia and Justinia hadn't visited the _sui iris_ out of the charitable impulse they have claimed to possess to their husbands. That silly, little Antonia Minor was going to visit the woman anyway and off course her sister Antonia Major wasn't going to let her go alone to the cell-block, no good sister would have. Sadly that had meant that Justinia's daughter Licinia had decided to take a few hours off the wedding preparations to go with them, because Licinia couldn't stand to be upstaged in any possible way, not even visiting a woman who had lowered herself to brawling like a barbarian.

Flavia's own daughter had gone with them. Mother and daughter shared the name Flavia, but Flavia the wife of Tiberius Flavius (they were cousins) was an intelligent woman of thirty winters of age. Her daughter was sixteen winters old, still inexperienced and soon to be informed about her father's intention of marrying her to a tribune in Eboracum.

Flavia the daughter had taken the visit as a curiosity, a meeting with a poor woman in a situation that wasn't fair and put her at the mercy of the male world with no one to look up to. Flavia the wife had taken the visit as a feminine reconnaissance mission, a meeting with a woman who was much more of a man than some of the sniveling soldiers the Castrum was home to.

She and Justinia had later reconvened, while the girls worked on decorating Licinia's wedding dress and discussing the supplies that needed to be used for the celebration. Their observations had been similar, allowing them to concur on the fact that the _sui iris_ was Roman only by virtue of the blood in her veins since she had only the appearance of a Roman woman. She was a cleverly disguised danger, that affected the manners and virtues of one of them but actually was a snake lying in waiting to strike at their way of living.

Naturally they had played her game, offered a warmer appearance after she had justified her actions and offered her friendship and support but it was just what they had to do to keep up the pretense of accepting the woman. The men, and their daughters too sadly, wouldn't have understood their position, had they refused to support the _sui iris_.

Flavia knew what a woman trying to fib her way out of a tight spot looked like and, as she had told Justinia, the _sui iris_ had been savage and spoiled long before she had come to the Castrum. Her family had allowed her mind to become spoiled by that mysterious mentor of hers. To their defense, the man -_had_- saved their daughter and they clearly had no male heir to give him to teach, but that didn't changed the fact that the experience had clearly made the girl's head go wrong.

While Flavia knew that there was no way the _sui iris_ could have refused the punishment, harsh but fair considering the woman tendencies, that Praetor Castus had inflicted on her, it was quite obvious that the woman wasn't as scared or reluctant as she should have been, nor was she shying away from trading knowledge for training befit of no woman. It was one thing to be obliged to act like a man and another one to go around with a crowd of barbarians and Gauls (who were barely above barbarians themselves) bartering male skills for her hard earned feminine ones.

Her husband saw it as a woman making the best of a bad situation. Flavia saw it for what it was: an addled woman who had no idea of what it really meant to be a Roman. A dangerous snake taking advantage of the kindness of the Romans around her to get her way and consort with barbarians that were no better than filth. What sort of respectable Roman woman would let herself be seen in a common tavern or wear -_breeches_- of her own accord, for God's sake?

She had been a servant, the gossip said. The maid of a Patrician, even, according to the voices going around. To have held such an important place and yet act as she was, betrayed a complete disregard for all the important little notions she should have taken note of and learned while doing her work for her Domina. It was unconscionable and unacceptable for any Roman woman to actually support such an endeavor.

Pretending to do as much was a given, but there was no way they could ever accept that girl as one of them. Justinia, poor soul that she was, had revealed to her that her husband Octavius meant to have her married to their oldest male son, Aurelio, and the thought was enough to make Flavia shudder.

The boy was young and easily impressed. An older woman, skilled in the arts of the bed, was going to manipulate him as easily as she had maneuvered the men in the Castrum to get herself in the position of being treated like a man. Octavius surely was going to try to keep her on a leash but as long as she kept up her pretense of normalcy and Roman-like behavior, she was surely going to convince him to let her continue her studies. Officially, it had not been her decision, hadn't it be? Praetor Castus had put her in the situation, hadn't he?

Flavia smiled softly at her husband and accepted his compliments for the evening meal, while she kept an eye on her daughter and her own two younger sons, luckily too young to be married, and the empty place that had been her oldest very own, until he had married two years before at the age of fifteen.

The name of Octavius's family and the well-being of his oldest son were at stake as much as the honor of the Romans in the Castrum, and their men couldn't be counted as able to do anything but sit by and be fooled by good manners and nicely constructed excuses. She and Justinia _had_ to put their minds to work finding a way to squash the marriage Octavius was planning long before it could get a chance to be put in motion.

After all, taking care of this kind of menace was exactly why God had put women like them in the life of their husbands. It was an unspoken but universal truth.

**-§-break-§-**

Arthur had received, through the other Centurions, word of more than one Roman soldier offering to lend his help to Isabella's cause, though he was sure most of them had been motivated more by curiosity than by an honest interest in passing their skills. His knights, both Sarmatians and Gauls, had taken a direct approach to the situation and bartered with Isabella herself. Burkhard himself had put in a request to be allowed to teach Isabella his own language, a clear sign that her request had thrown the Gauls in the cavalry in a tizzy. Even Father Claudius had agreed to bow to Arthur's request and teach her how to read and write with the children of the Castrum.

Working out a schedule with Isabella hadn't been as hard as it could've been, and the end result was a day as full of training as that of any kind of recruit, on top of having to work. Lancelot, of course, had been present and ever so helpful, confirming Arthur impression that he was out and on the hunt for the woman.

Looking down at the tablet on his table, Arthur idly reviewed the schedule the three of them had put together.

Up before dawn, when the _ientaculum_ had to be ready to be served, and working in the kitchen until the first half of the morning. Then two hours of lesson in Latin in the Church with the young kids, after which she was due back in the kitchens to help with the preparation and cooking of lunch.

After lunch, she was expected to change in man clothes (something that hadn't bothered her at all, which was quite amusing for Arthur, who had known his fair share of prissy Roman women during his stay in Rome) and present herself to the Training Fields.

There, daily when they weren't on mission, Lamorak would work on her strength and endurance and Gaheris on her horse-riding, followed by her giving lessons in her unarmed fighting style to those who were instered in it (Gaheris, a Roman legionary by the name of Caius Rutilius and a Briton legionary known as Oswine, for now).

On alternate days she would be taught by either Dinadan (sword fighting and, in time and if she stuck to it, dual wielding) and Rutilius (who would cover the legionary style of fighting, if she showed any aptitude to it). Then it was back to the kitchens, to help prepare and cook the dinner.

Since the Castrum organized itself not according to the still-used nundinal cycle but according to the seven day week, Arthur had signed down the Dies Veneris and the Dies Saturni as the days during which she was going to be expended from the kitchen work. Instead of doing that, she was going to leave the Castrum and be taught trap-making and fishing by the two Gaul brothers who had offered as much, archery from Oswine and hunting by Tristan (who was probably the best option she could find to learn that kind of trade, given Tristan's natural talent for it) who covered also the learning of how to orient oneself in a forest.

There was also the possibility for her to be instructed in knife throwing by that knife-wielding Gaul, Cogidubnus, were she to pass his test. What test that was, the Gaul hadn't made it clear but Arthur had been informed by Burkhard that it was probably about aptitude and the right kind of mentality and that she was destined to fail, knowing Cogidubnus. Arthur had left the Gaul his secret test and instead passed on, through Burkhard, the tablet with the execution order that Cogidubnus had asked to carry out. Still, if she managed somehow to pass the test, Cogidubnus lessons were going to take place during the Dies Veneris and Dies Saturni too, in the late afternoon.

A full schedule, one that was going to exhaust her. Arthur didn't give her more than a week, two at the most, before she was back in his office asking for a re-arranging or reduction of the work-table. He hadn't expressed that thought to Lancelot, who had left with the woman, but he had no doubt that the knight would have agreed with him, on this matter.

No woman could handle such a back-breaking routine.

**-§-break-§-**

Agrippa had dismounted from his turn of guarding at the usual hour, but had elected to wait nearby Praetor Castus's studio in the hope of catching Isabella Antonia once she was finished here.

He had been lucky enough to be correct in his guess that Lancelot hadn't lied to centurion Lucullo, sooner in the afternoon and just before the medical officer Jols came in for his report on the two injured Sarmatians conditions. It would have been a lie far too transparent and easy to discover by the centurion so Agrippa had been reasonably sure of his chances at catching the woman once the meeting was over.

She wasn't alone, when she came out of the office, but Agrippa had expected Lancelot to be with her, since it was by now clear that the man had put his eye on her. Agrippa, personally, wasn't sure what the man found so attractive in the woman. At the same time he didn't really care all that much about it. Isabella Antonia was a widow and a _sui iris_, the choice of who she was taking in her bed was up to her and Agrippa wasn't in any position to judge or reprimand her for it.

"Domina Antonia?" He inquired, choosing to use the respectful title that some had already started to adopt when talking about the woman. Augustus Sempronius and Seneca Domitius had approached him that morning, reminding him that he was one of the few unmarried _statores_ and that no one was going to raise an eyebrow if he approached the _sui iris_ to invite her to the upcoming Pomona festival.

October was almost finished, they were three days before the November's Kalend and the Pomona festival was held on the November's Kalends themselves. Inviting the _sui iris_ to participate was a way to help her integrate with the other Romans like her, putting her back in contact with her own culture and tradition. Even if she was a Christian, like Agrippa himself, that didn't forbid her from participating in the festival once the rites had been executed and the actual ceremony finished. Father Claudius even encouraged the Christians to keep ties of friendship with their friends and kin who still believed in the pagan gods.

Isabella Antonia stopped and, after a brief confused look thrown in Lancelot's direction, she turned towards Agrippa, looking at him cautiously. The Sarmatian stepped to her side, taking care of being heard by her as he moved, and looked at him stonily, clearly disapproving of his interruption. His loss, Agrippa wasn't there for him or to accommodate his whims.

"Yes?" The Domina inquired and Agrippa shifted his eyes to her face, offering her a genuine smile. He had nothing against her, even admired her a little, in the measure a woman as unconventional as she was could be admired. Agrippa knew very well how heavy the weight of expectations and duty could be, thanks to his father and older brothers back in Rome, and here was a woman willing to try and take it on her shoulders.

"I was wondering if you had the intention of going to the Pomona Festival that will be held on the November's Kalend, as always." He went right for his point, not wanting to unnerve neither her nor Lancelot, who appeared to take his wondering as a personal insult. His left hand twitched, as if he wanted to raise it or drag her closer, but he did nothing, looking at Agrippa with hard, irritated eyes. Well, his problem. Agrippa had made a very reasonable inquiry.

"I'm not sure if I should. My family was made up by Christians and we didn't participate in the worship of the Old Gods. I have lost track of which festivals are when, not having a reason to attend them." Isabella replied, a hand coming up to comb a lock of hair behind the lobe of her ear. Her cloak shifted and Agrippa suddenly recognized it.

The heavy, dark blue wool doubled up with white wool for the inside and the tears mended with lighter toned threads... it was Lancelot's own cloak that she was wearing, something that Agrippa had failed to notice it when she had passed him in the afternoon. It was a costly cloak, that Lancelot had commissioned and seen made to his specifics, paying quite the high price for it. It was a prized possession of the knight and, put over Isabella's shoulders, a clear sign of serious intentions towards the girl. Agrippa suddenly understood why his very reasonable inquiry had been so badly welcomed by the knight. Still, he had an invite to see through.

"Father Claudius encourages us Christians to partake in the public part of the festival. While we do not go to the rite itself, we can still enjoy the music and feasting that is done afterwards." He explained to her, remembering how he had never seen her to the ceremonies held in the little church they had in the Castrum. There hadn't been many important celebrations to go to, which was she probably hadn't come. He hoped that would change, Father Claudius always appreciated getting new people to join their congregation.

"Oh, well … I suppose I could go, then." Isabella replied, nodding slightly and looking vaguely surprised. She probably wasn't used to a more open view of things but Father Claudius believed in Pelagius teachings as much as the Praetor was and most of them were based around acceptance of the others, one of the fundamental valor or the whole Empire approach to other religions.

"I can accompany you, so we can see together what it's all about." Lancelot interjected, pleasantly enough even though he still kept looking at Agrippa like he was planning something nasty for him. Agrippa made his best to look neutral and, to be honest, he didn't really cared if Lancelot wanted to participate or not. It was no secret at the Castrum that the knight openly refused to acknowledge the existence of God or any kind of Gods. Agrippa was never going to be able to understand people like him, lacking Faith of any kind.

Isabella turned her head towards him, looking at him for a moment before she nodded slightly. His answering smile made her cheeks become darker and Agrippa felt the last doubts he may had kept about the nature of their closeness completely dissipate. It was clear that they were at least fucking, giving the way she was reacting to him and the way he was acting around her. Nice bit of gossip, but one that Agrippa was going to keep for himself.

No need to attract more ire from the knight.

**-§-break-§-**

Isobel didn't relax until the meeting with Agrippa was well over and Lancelot had escorted her almost to the door of her room. The silence between the two of them wasn't unwelcome nor unsettling and she let her thought wander a little, regretting the fact that she was going to have to give Lancelot his cloak back once at her room. She really, _really_ liked it, hot and comfortable as it was. Antonia Minor had told her that her new dresses were going to be ready in a day or two but Isobel doubted that her own wool cloak was going to be on the same level as this doubled one.

Isobel thought about her current wardrobe, as she walked. The ruined dress, still needing mending from the night before, and the dress she was wearing, both of lighter material, and her light shoes that were starting to be a pain to walk around in, over the cold stones that paved the Fort. The glove she had been lent by Jols, and was going to give back.

She knew she was lucky that she got fed in the kitchens, instead of having to buy all of her food, because between the dresses, cloak and gloves she had already ordered, she had depleted her reserves of sestertii to buy the breeches she was wearing and a second pair, the couple of wool shirts (a little too big for her because only man sized clothes were stocked away, and all men around here where damn huge) she was going to wear with the breeches for training and a couple of heavy boots (she had had to try on various sizes before both she and the shoe-maker realized that she was going to have to buy in boy size, instead of man size, while she waited for her own boots to be made) she was surely going to wear from now on.

She had also invested in a pair of gloves, though they weren't as sturdy and nice as the one Jols had lent her (who was also leather, which she really couldn't afford). While she wasn't broke, yet, months of careful saving had been severely depleted by her shopping spree she had went on the other day. No one had mentioned giving her anything and she knew better than to expect clothes to be provided to her. Clothes were costly and _she_ was the one that wanted to learn how to fight and hunt and all, wasn't she?

Her musings came to an halt when they reached her door and she stopped, just outside of it. Lancelot stopped too, making no attempt to disguise the fact that he had no intention of going anywhere but where she was and well, she had kind of expected that. It was kind of alarming how she coming to _expect_ this kind of things from him, but at the same time it was better that way since becoming used to his style meant not freezing when he tried something.

"May I come in? We can leave the door open if it makes you more comfortable, I just want to talk with you." Lancelot queried and Isobel eyed him, her gloved hand (Iseult had taken off when she had understood they were going inside but Isobel hadn't taken the glove off yet) coming up to push the hair that had came undone from her braid back and away from her face. Leaving the door open meant he probably wasn't going to try anything, what with anyone passing being able to see in the room, and he looked serious enough to give her pause.

Anyway, it wasn't like she would shy away from breaking his nose, were he to try something. She was aware, _now_, that she wasn't going to end up in any real trouble if she did and her skill was out in the open. They had believed her excuses and explanations and they knew she was more than able to defend herself in close quarters. What the hell, listening to him wasn't going to kill her.

She nodded and opened the door, entering her room and immediately going to the little fireplace in the far corner of her room. The fire hadn't completely died yet, but there were only embers left and she added a couple of chunks of wood from the basket she had near to it. Her reserve of wood was down to just enough chunks for that night and _maybe_ the next one, so she made a mental note the find the time to replenish it the following day. She wanted her room to be nicely hot, thank you very much.

Once she was done with the fire, renovated and crackling happily away in the fireplace, Isobel turned towards Lancelot, who had indeed left the door open and was looking at her with a fond expression that made her insides squirm, and took off his cloak, ready to give it back to him. He followed the movement with his eyes, letting them linger for a moment on her tits before they came back to her face. He had been _almost_ subtle at it, but Isobel had expected it to happen so she had known what to look for.

"What do you want to talk to me about?" She asked him, offering what she hoped was a neutral smile as she closed part of the distance between the two of them. Just enough to hand him the cloak back, which he took readily if not enthusiastically. Isobel supposed he had liked the look of it on her, or something like that, and let it pass without comment as she waited for his answer.

"I have two gifts for you, Domina Isabella Antonia, gift that I hope you will accept as a sign of my intention to pursue you in a more serious way than the one I have displayed until now." He raised his eyes from the cloak just as she was about to speak and she found herself rooted on the spot by them and by the solemn look into them. She felt her cheeks flush and her heart pick up his pace as she closed her bandaged fingers (Dinadan had helped bandaging them back up) in a fist and then relaxed them again.

_What?_

It had been just a thought but she was kind of sure that her mouth had opened and the word, the actual english word '_what_' had come out of it. It was not Latin, not even close since a better exclamation would have been _quare?_ if she wanted to be understood, but he took it in stride, as if it was something he heard daily. For a moment he looked puzzled, then he snorted and his expression changed back to serious.

"No need to make such disbelieving sounds. I know that my behavior may have come off as insistent, but I want to assure you that I have the serious intention of pursuing you until you will agree to become my lover on a stable basis." The knight told her, in an amused voice, and yeah that was far more dedication and intent than Isobel had credited Lancelot with. The man was actually planning on more than a couple of one night stands? _Really_?

She sat down on the edge of her bed, feeling her eyebrows go up almost all the way to her airline as she looked at him. He looked at her, offering now a smile that made her happy she had already seated herself, if only because between her hormones and her knees she would have probably embarrassed herself in some way, had she still been standing.

"The gifts I offer you are of a practical nature, Domina Antonia." Lancelot went on, serious again, and he put the cloak down next to her, hand lingering a moment before laying it across her left wrist. He looked at her, clearly waiting for her permission, and she gave a vague nod, knowing that this was him presenting her with his gifts and the least she should do was allow him to do it, before she tried to explain to him the situation (which was about hormones, enforced chastity for months and the fact that both he and Tristan made her squirm in more ways than a simply sexual one).

Lancelot fingers closed around her gloved wrist and he turned it so that her hand was palm up. From a pouch attached at his belt he took out a gleaming something that he lowered in her hand. When he let go of both object and wrist, Isobel saw that it was a polished steel brooch in the form of what looked like a stylized horse. She had seen many brooches since she had ended up in this place, difficult not to, but never one with that particular craftsmanship.

"It's Sarmatian. I gift you my cloak, to keep you warm and safe from the cold outside, along with this brooch to better close it and to adorn either that cloak or any other you may decide to wear. I know far too well how unpleasant the winters can be, here." He told her, in a warm voice that made her insides tie in a knot. It wasn't false, winter was promising to be a far worse bitch than the winters she had experimented back in the _then_ (another tick her mental column of evidence that Arthur Castus's Briton sucked ass).

Her eyes went from him to his cloak. His double lined, wonderful wool cloak that had kept her warm all day, helping out the breeches she was still wearing under her dress. She was a little in love with that cloak, really, and to be gifted with it _and_ a really nice brooch to close it... well, her hormones weren't the only ones telling her to jump the man now. Still, she wasn't sure of how much of a good idea it actually was.

She was horny, yes, and he was being actually nice and had talked about pursuing her, but her situation at the Fort was just stabilizing and she wasn't sure how to handle a relationship in a world were casual relationships didn't exactly existed, sexism and misogyny were rampant and dating was usually considered just an introduction to marriage. Not to talk about the still present risk of STDs, she wasn't going to _ever_ forget about it, the fact that condoms didn't existed and that she was going to have to get her hands on whatever herb was used to prevent contraception and pray with her fingers crossed that it worked, should she actually go through with it. Three quarters of this, she couldn't even tell him about.

Other than that, there was Tristan. Tristan with his _oh holy fuck_ smile and dark eyes and long brown hair that needed a throughout scrub and his tattoos on chis cheeks that were far too hot to be legal. Tristan who was as gentle with Iseult as she had been, who hadn't ever heard of buying someone something just because it was a nice thing to do and who was going to teach her how to hunt. Tristan who just needed to look at her to make her want to wriggle and drop her clothes and crawl in bed with him (stupid charming knights, really). Tristan who was a predator and had looked at her in a way that made her feel hunted.

Tristan who, fuck it, was actually one of Lancelot's brothers in arms and a compatriot at the same time and who, one day, was going to either meet a princess named by his falcon or die because of a married woman. She wasn't going to name him, she wasn't even sure if she wanted to actually talk about him at all, especially with Lancelot who was interested in her and was almost assuredly going to take it the wrong way.

She didn't wanted to start something with Lancelot with the '_what if_' of her and Tristan hanging over her head. It wouldn't have been fair to Lancelot and had the potential to lead to complications. Isobel wasn't unfaithful, never had been and never going to be, but the situation had the potential to get ugly fast and she had no intention of putting dissent between the knights nor to come between the two men. Not her kind of thing, at all, but there was no way she was going to explain most of it to Lancelot, what with not wanting to be taken as a complete nutjob.

"May I be blunt?" She asked, in the end, because she needed his permission to be blunt to straighten things out. Attempting to converge her feelings and the reality of the situation in a subtle and educate way was well over her capacity at the moment. Luckily, Lancelot nodded just before, unluckily, he decided to sat down on the border of the bed next to her. Oh great, she could feel another bout of babbling come on, what with him being so close and a stupid charming knight and he _had_ given her that _wonderful_ cloak of his.

"You are attractive and I haven't had sex in more than five months by now. I want to have sex with you, just like I feel an attraction of the sexual type for other men around me. This is the first time I've seen you as anything more than someone pestering me to get access to my bed, have sex with me and leave. I don't know if I should accept your gifts, lovely and actually _really_ appreciated as they are, when I am not sure if what you want from me is something I _can_ give you. I want -" The rest of her speech was lost.

Lancelot wound his hands into her hair and kissed her, taking advantage of her open mouth to deepen the kiss and make her toes curl.

Oh, _fuck_.

**-§-break-§-**

Lancelot howled in pain as he drew back.

The kiss had been going well, well enough that he was about to drew back just enough to murmur a seductive 'That's what I want', when she stopped being cooperative and -_bit down_- on his tongue.

Holy fucking shit, that hurt like hell!

She followed it with a push, that half-shoved him down on the bed, and jumped up and away from him looking like he had in some way slighted her.

"_That_ is _exactly_ the kind of behavior that makes me think I would be better off keeping my legs closed and my door locked." She ground out, cheeks blazing and clearly completely indifferent to the pain she had just unleashed on his poor unsuspecting tongue. Oh, but she looked temptingly fiery all puffed up in rage, with her arm crossed on her chest (which made her already noticeable tits stand out even more).

"Sorry." He muttered, though it came out mangled because holy fuck, his tongue hurt even worse when he moved it to form words. He pushed himself sitting upright and cautiously poked at it, hissing when he felt the already vanishing impression her teeth had left into it.

"It's just..." He stopped, realizing how weirdly the words sounded coming out of his mouth. He hoped he would soon stop to sound ridiculous, or at least that he would be able to soon talk like a normal person again. She didn't seem to be impressed by his plight and just raised an eyebrow, not moving a muscle from her position a few feet away from the bed.

"It's just." He tried again, when the pain had subsided a little, and it came out more understandable if not normal again. Relieved, he went on.

"It's just that you are attractive too. I want to talk with you, want to take you to the festival and get to know you but I also want to have sex with you. Lots of sex and … it's really distracting _and _frustrating to have you so near and not actually _having_ you." He was aware that this was far more blunt than what he had ever been with a woman that wasn't a prostitute, but she had been blunt with him and he figured she wasn't going to mind if he cut through the bullshit and went straight to the point.

"I am _not_ a woman who sleeps with a man just because she's physically attracted to him. Until I feel emotionally invested with you, until I feel _something_ for you that isn't physical desire or the urge to attack you because you make me uncomfortable, I will not have sex with you." She answered, her voice clipped and her tone frosty.

She clearly hadn't realized it, but the fact that she had principles and was sticking to them was as attractive to Lancelot as the fact that she was looking almost like a complete different woman. So _that _was what her outer shell of insecurity and caution was hiding. He liked it, liked this fire so much more than the already intriguing sides of her personality that he had seen until now.

"How about kisses? May I kiss you without you trying to bite off my tongue?" He asked, grimacing as said tongue flashed throbbing pain in protest to his use of it. For a moment, she looked at him as if she couldn't quite believe what she had heard. Then she huffed and raised her eyes to the ceiling before she exhaled loudly, her shoulders falling as she let her arms drop.

"Unbelievable." She muttered, shaking her head, and then looked at him side-ways. Lancelot knew he was coming off as mouthy and far more of a horn dog than he actually was, but he couldn't help himself. She just made it so tempting to needle her, confident as he felt that she wasn't actually going to beat him, even though she had confessed the desire to.

"Listen." He said, changing his tone from light and flirty to serious. While it was fun to play around with her, he was also smart enough to know that the things she had confessed too were important and to be considered as such. She had opened up at him and he remembered Jols's unspoken warning of not fucking things up with her. She inhaled and crossed her arms again, nodding to him warily.

"I want to get to know you, but I won't promise anything more than honesty. I was going to court you anyway and I will not try to neither kiss nor try to seduce you again. Right now I want you and there's no other woman in the Fort that has my attention or can compete with you in my eyes. I don't know how long it will last or that I will feel anything more than desire and, possibly, a bond of friendship with you. I will respect the limits you impose and I will tell you if I find someone I want more. I expect the same kind of honesty from you and a chance. That's all I'm asking." He spoke calmly, without any rush, eyes looking up and holding her gaze as he put down on the metaphorical table his pitch. He wasn't going to give her anything more than this and if she wanted more … well, she wasn't going to get it.

Isobel pressed her teeth in her lower lip, looking at him with serious eyes and a thoughtful expression. Her arms remained crossed over her chest but they loosened a little, the pose shifting from hard-lined to a softer one. Her gaze flickered for a moment to his cloak and then down on the metal brooch she was still holding in her hand. Minutes stretched between them as she remained silent, and Lancelot let them stretch. He didn't had anywhere to go, he wasn't in a rush. This was important. This warranted his patience.

"I will be honest with you too." She said, after a while, and Lancelot nodded, tensing just slightly. He wanted her honesty, valued it because it was fundamental for him to have. He needed to know he could trust her to tell him the truth, for better or for worse.

"As I told you, I find you attractive. I want you but I won't be with you until I'll feel something more than simply attraction between us. It's too soon to speak of a bond of friendship, though it does seem that we are heading in that direction at the very least. I will not try to stop you from courting me, that's a decision that is up to you and you alone, but I won't spurn your court either, because it will allow me to get to know you better." She went on, arms lowering slightly as she moved towards the bed. Not towards him but just towards the bed he was sat on, and it was evident even before she lowered her hand to pick up the cloak he had gifted her.

"There's another man I find attractive enough to give me pause, though I won't tell you his name. I am as attracted to him as I feel to you and I feel there is the possibility of something growing up between us. I don't know if he's interested in me or if he will desire to court me too, but I will speak with him about it to let him know about both my interest and your intentions and I will tell you what he does tell me. More honest than that, I don't feel I can be." She looked up from the cloak and to him, sitting there as a cold feeling settled in his stomach at the unexpected presence of a possible rival in her affections.

He nodded to her, tersely, and got up, eyes never leaving her face. It wasn't pleasant, what he was feeling (and he was aware of the rarely before felt gnawing of jealousy attacking in his gut), but she _was_ being honest and it was what he had offered to her and asked of her. She was being far more honest than he would have expected her to be, something that made her all the more desirable in his eyes.

"I will still court you, and do my best to win your favor." He told her and, slowly, closed the distance between them. He had meant what he had said before, about not trying to kiss or seduce her again, but he still wanted to do something.

Under her watchful eyes, he took the cloak from her hands and drew it around her, settling it over her form and enjoying the way the cloth fell down along her arms, sides and legs, covering her from neck to toes. With gentle fingers, he took the brooch off her hands and used it to pin the folds of the cloak closed. He left the hood down, hands coming up to gently tuck her errant lock of hair behind her ear, as he looked at her and took in how she looked while wearing his cloak and brooch. A Scythian brooch, to keep the cloak of a Scythian knight closed. Perfect, on this Roman Domina.

"Then, you may have one kiss." She told him, her voice low even as her cheeks reddened, as if only seconds had passed from his last phrase. Lancelot felt a slow smile spread on his lips and he really couldn't help himself.

"Without you biting my tongue off, Domina Antonia?" He asked, letting the tip of his tongue poke out of his mouth. The hurt had wound down to a dull pain and he was able to speak like a normal person again, thankfully. It was worth it, thought, when she smiled back and let out a little laugh, before nodding.

"Without biting your tongue off, Lancelot of Sarmatia." She answered him and Lancelot smile grew bigger as he gently cupped her cheek and closed the distance that separated their mouths.

She was going to be worth a whole fucking more than just a painfully throbbing tongue, he was sure of it.

**-§-break-§-**

**Author Note:**

Hello my dear readers, here's the new chapter for you all and as you can see the plots in the story are finally moving forward!

_First_ of all thank you very much for all of your nice thoughts about my shoulder. It's back to normal now, in the sense that it's still a little sore but I don't have to keep it immobilized anymore, so I can type with both hands freely. Your show of concern has been wonderful and actually made me blush a little, you are great persons all of you!

_Second_, I've received a review that brought up a due question (one I was expecting to pop up sooner or later) about the romantic portion of this story. It's a just question and one that I really appreciate has been posed. I've been wanting to talk about this part of my concept vision for this story for a while. While I won't give you clear spoilers about the future of the story, what I want to say about the romantic portion of this story is that there as much as everywhere else in this story I will try to strive for grey zones, coherence and realism.

What does that mean? It means that no character is perfect, all of them will act true to their nature and believes and they will all change with the passing of time and the experiences they make. No one is set in stone, nothing remains unchanged. You may have the same beliefs you had as a kid as an adult but the reasons behind them will be different and more complex (not always but at least usually).

It also means that relationships may start, go on and then fail or that they can hold up for years, that they can be broken by the death of a person or by events who are unavoidable and / or may be out of the characters control. Isobel isn't the type of person to get into a lot of one night stands (as much as her hormones are rumoring for her to break the streak of sexual abstinence) and she won't just hop from bed to bed (I won't say _if_ she will end up in more than one bed or anything more about that, because I don't want to spoiler my readers). I will strive to keep both her and her interactions with others (especially romantic / sexual ones) as close to coherent to how she, and those interested in her / she has an interest in, are.

I actually don't think it will be an easy ride, emotionally / romantically speaking, but I think it will be an interesting one so I hope you will decide to bear with me.

Now, while Isobel is the main character of the story, this story is more of an ensemble kind of fic with heavy influence on what it meant living in that time period. This is one of the two main reason behind the multiple POV, the other being that I want to explore the social contest around her (the reactions she and her actions elicit in others being a big part of that). I will focus on her but, to do that, I will also have to focus on other characters (both from the movie and OCs) because what happens to them will influence her as much as what happens to her will influence them.

None of us lives in a vacuum where you can ignore what goes on in the world around you. While the big changes in the world will come to the Fort in a much slower time and with much less informations than will get in the modern world, what happens on a local level will have a big amount of influence on Isobel's own little world. This means that I will try to expand on the OCs that I've already wrote about and how they effect the life in the Fort, since it will have a ripple effect that will include Isobel in it.

Since we are on the topic of relationships, this also means that I may not stuck to the hetero-normative and instead introduce OCs who aren't heterosexual or choose a not completely heterosexual take on some of the characters. It may happen, it may not. Bisexuals and homosexuals existed during the Roman Empire and they were part of their culture (to mention a fact, it was okay for a male citizen to fuck male slaves as long as the male citizen was on top). I will not ignore that, if the plot allows me to do as much. It will not be a main plot point but it may be mentioned here and there.

Since I'm writing about a culture, mainly, I will not ignore parts of it because someone is squeamish and I will not trumpet it to reel in slash fans. You like it, good. You don't like it, it's not put on display because no one would have put it on display at the time (unless it was somewhat scandalous because it deviated from what was considered the norm). I thought you should get a heads up, since I was already on topic.

_Third,_ (and last before I address your wonderful reviews) I have been thinking about offering you readers a possibility. I hadn't thought about it when I started writing the fic but, I'll admit to it, I wasn't expecting the incredible reaction that this story elicited from you all.

I was hoping to get a couple of reviewers if I was lucky and the fact that so many of you have instead appreciated my work (and let me know it) never fails to brighten my day and bring a smile to my lips. Almost all of you love history and are really invested in the story, suggesting me things and making questions and generally taking a lot of interest in what's going on. This is why, while I can and will create OCs as they are needed, I am thinking of offering you all the possibility to create an OC that I may weave in the story, at some point.

_If_, and that's a _big_ if since it depends on what you all think of this, I decide to offer you this possibility, you have to realize that they will have to be historically correct OCs (but many of you have an interest in history on your own and for those who aren't I know that you have more than enough informations to create one).

No time-travelers, all humans and in accordance to the needs of the story. That means that, if you present an OC (_only one per person_), he / she will have to fall in one of the following categories.

_Romans_ - Soldiers, officers, plebeian living and working at the Castrum, patrician (one of those you've been informed will be of passage through the Fort in a while). Male or female. Kid, young person, adult, old person (meaning from their 30s to their 70s).

_Britons_ - Soldiers, people living and working at the Fort, people living and working outside the Fort. Male or female. Kid, young person, adult, old person (meaning from their 30s to their 70s).

_Gauls_ - Soldiers. Male. Adult, old person (meaning from their 30s to their 50s).

I don't need neither Woads nor Saxons (at least for a while) and you will have to keep in mind the fact that your OC (just like mine) will be in and out of the story depending on when I need them to be. They may have a small or a big role, depending on what use I'll decide to put them to, and they may and probably _will_ die at some point. Also, do not expect them to end romantically involved with anyone because, just like with mine own OCs, it may or may not happen depending both on the direction I decide to send the story in and on the way the characters develop.

Since this would be the first time I do a thing like this, I would be limiting the number of OCs to one per person. If it goes well, I repeat the _if_ since I don't give it for granted and I don't even know if I'll do it this once, I may consider the idea of letting you put in another one in the future, but it's not a promise so don't expect it (especially since none of us know yet if this experiment will go down in flames or not). As always, I will also keep your opinions in big consideration so if you don't want to participate to this experiment or you disagree with it I would like for you all to let me know that.

If I decide to go through with it and you decide to submit an OC, you can do it in your review or (if you're not a reviewing kind of person, which I totally understand) you can send me one via PM. You can also send me one via PM if you want your OC to be a surprise for the other readers, it's all up to your own personal preferences. Also keep in mind that the OCs will have to be included in the above categories and that you would have to fill out the following informations, since they would be needed for me to handle your OC in the story:

_Name_ (best go with either celtic or anglo-saxon names for the Britons and celtic or german names for the Gauls, Romans you already know how it works and you can find a list of common gens on wikipedia if you search with the key-word _Roman Names_)

_Physical description_ (it can be written, you can send me a link, whatever you prefer, note that I've been trying to pick normal looking people instead of models)

_Occupation at the Fort_

_Eventual family_ (you can sketch them out a little or just tell him if she / he has some and how many and I'll be able to sketch them out on my own)

_Background_ (why he / she is there, what happened in his / her past)

What they think of recent events (you can go with any kind of reaction that would fit the culture and mentality of the time)

Thank you very much in advance for anything from just reading this to your thoughts to deciding to let me know if I should go on with the experiment or not! Now, on to your awesome reviews (that never fails to make me squirm in my chair from happiness).

**Spooks94**: Thanks for adding the story to your favorites :D. *flails* While I'm enormously flattered by how big of a grasp this story has on you, please don't get hurt on behalf of reading it! I would miss you and your reviews terribly!

**quixoticquin**: Hee, I'm really happy you decided to put me on your alert list, thanks a lot!

**JMM1979**: It's really nice to know my story is one of your favorites, thank you very much!

**DGfleetfox**: Don't worry the shoulder has mended, now. Just a little sore but that will pays in a couple of more days. Happy birthday (even though I'm late in telling you as much), I'm happy the chapter came up in such a timely fashion! Your assessment of my writing skills made me preen like blushing peacock but I'm really ecstatic that the effort I put into it is recognized so thank you! I do agree on Sally Hawkins being the kind of person that becomes prettier the more you look at her (Tristan agrees too as you may have seen *giggles*). Tristan is my favorite movie character too! I've read many fic with him as the main character / love interest and many interesting takes on him but I'm striving to make mine as movie-canon like possible so your confirmation that I'm doing it well is really awesome for me to read. About him and Isobel … you'll have to wait and see ;)

**Yaya-chan02**: Thanks for letting me know you enjoyed the update and the arm is mended! I haven't typed one handed since … I think forever, since I learned to type two-handed in school around the time I first came in contact with the internet (it wasn't an experience I was keen to go through again, to be honest XD). Thanks again for your review!

**Victoria**: YAY, I'm happy you liked the chapter! Especially since it was your 18th birthday! Here in Italy, 18 years is the equivalent of 21 years for the citizens of the US of A so it's a really important date! I'm in awe of you being home-schooled and having that much of an interest. I never went to the Classical high school. In Italy we have high schools divided by subjects of interest / career of choice and I went to a professional school oriented towards preparing people to work in the touristic sector of the economy which means I studied things like english and french (never took a liking to german, which was the alternative to french), economy and basic law and the kind. I've self-taught myself most of my english and almost all of my knowledge in past cultures and civilizations that picked my interest, so I think I can empathize with you on some level. Your help will be more than welcome, anytime!

**Soaring Hawk**: Just a little sore, it will go away. Thanks for letting me know you loved the chapter, it really makes my day!

**forestreject**: Yep, training was coming and has come. It will be in the story for a long time, since I'm against instant skills. She will spend a lot of her time sweating and working her ass off in the mud from now on ;). Your use of 'Goldilocks' cracked me up, still cracks me up and make me giggle like a madwoman. I've answered your question before but thanks a lot for asking it! I won't make predictions on the pairings, only say that it will be interesting and there will be no … "goldilocking" around *dissolve in giggles*

**Scarlet Rebelle**: Ops, I'm sorry that's a slip of the tongue on my part! In Italy we have an expression, "Tirare giù I santi dal paradiso" that translates (literally) to "Yanking / Pulling the saints down from Heaven / the Heavens". It's used as an euphemism for both swearing and for swearing by calling out the saints names (like "Jesus, Mary and Joseph" or "Oh for the love of St. Peter!" or other phrases like that). I'm sorry, sometimes I miss these kind of things when I re-read a chapter because they make sense in my mind. I will keep better attention in the future, thanks for bringing it up!

**curlyteeful**: Thanks for adding my story to your alerts!

**Castiel4ever**: Thank you for taking the time to add my story to your favorites!

**Kristall**: Awwww, don't worry about the time it takes you to review! It's always awesome to get new reviews, no matter how long does it takes for one to be written! I do agree that ethnic groups aren't often featured in fics, but luckily for me it's quite fun to integrate the different cultures in the story. It was good to hear from you too and, as you can see below, I have put out more historical notes this time ;) I hope you'll enjoy them!

**Historical Note:**

_Gifts in less modern times_

A gift, in the past, was a big deal, no matter how big or small.

Little tokens were exchanged within a family or people who were quite close, but gifts were either a form of flattery / bribery or intended to represent something. No gift, no matter how small or unassuming was ever casual or 'just a thought' as we intend them to be in the current western culture.

A gift made in person had a more sentimental valor while gifts paid for where clearly intended to be about _something_. You didn't invested money in keepsakes or niceties, not for someone you weren't interested in on some level (either personal or economical).

Gifts were prized things and accepting or refusing them was as important as the act of presenting one, the absence of which could prove deleterious or even insulting depending on the situation and person.

To make an example out of the story.

_Finding_ an apple and taking it to Tristan, would have been something no one thought anything of with him being Lancelot brother in arms and her having been seen around wearing Lancelot's cloak (a clear sign of belonging).

_Buying_ a sack (no matter how little) of apples and openly admitting to it being a gift for Tristan could be interpreted as expressing favor for Tristan over Lancelot. It could have also been intended (had Lancelot been looking) as a tentative of either ingratiating Lancelot by giving gifts to one of his brothers or a tentative of curbing Tristan's favor towards her relationship with the other knight. She may have needed a favor from him, too, or may have wanted to get even more in his good graces (which she did, but more because it was clear it was _not_ her intent than anything else).

This is why Dinadan reacted the way he did in both this and the previous chapter and why Tristan was so impressed with the fact that she had thought of _buying_ him something. It was also a possibly sticky situation with Lancelot, if he misinterpreted the situation, especially given both the fact that she was still wearing his cloak and the way Tristan was looking at her.

_Dual wielding_

While dual wielding is quite old as a combat technique, the idea of using a combination of sword and knife (parry knife as it's aptly called) was developed during Renaissance, hence why the knights aren't used to the idea of using that particular combo of weapons.

Still, dual wielding per se is actually quite older than the time period of the fic as a technique. If a warrior wasn't using a shield / weapon combination or a two-handed weapon, then it was normal for two weapons (either twin weapons, complementary weapons or a weapon and throwing items combo) to be used.

The basic idea was that you didn't left an arm (and a hand) underutilized. It made no sense and it would leave a person open to attacks on that side, because it would have resulted unprotected.

_Testudo_

Roman military maneuver, one of the most known. It was executed by a group of soldiers forming a rectangular shape. The soldiers on the sides would use their rectangular shields to form a barrier all around the group, while the soldiers in the middle did the same with their heads, raising the shields and turning them horizontal over their heads.

This would allow the unit to be protected from all sides, forming a sort of 'turtle' (testudo), who would only open to allow a soldier to thrust forward to injure his enemy, before he backed back in the formation, allowing it to close again.

_Correlation between living well and illness in the Roman practice of medicine_

Roman doctors (that where far more advanced than most of the western doctors and practitioners of medicine that came in later times and during the whole medieval period of time) believed that living well, eating well and avoid unnecessary stressing where key factors to have a healthier body and less of a propensity to fall ill.

_Nundinal cycle_

The Romans of the Republic, used a "market week" of eight days, marked as A to H in the calendar. A _nundina_ was the market day. The market "week" is the nundinal cycle. Since the length of the year was not a multiple of eight days, the letter for the market day (known as a "nundinal letter") changed every year. For example, if the letter for market days in some year was A and the year was 355 days long, then the letter for the next year would be F.

The nundinal cycle formed one rhythm of day-to-day Roman life; the market day was the day that country people would come to the city, and the day that city people would buy their eight days' worth of groceries. Because the nundinal cycle was absolutely fixed at eight days under the Republic, information about the dates of market days is one of the most important tools we have for working out the Julian equivalent of a Roman date in the pre-Julian calendar.

The nundinal cycle was eventually replaced by the modern seven-day week, which first came into use in Italy during the early imperial period, after the Julian calendar had come into effect. For a while, the week and the nundinal cycle coexisted.

_Roman days of the seven-days week_

Dies Solis Day of the Sun Sunday first day of the week

Dies Lunae Day of the Moon Monday second day of the week

Dies Martis Day of Mars (Ares) Tuesday third day of the week

Dies Mercurii Day of Mercury (Hermes) Wednesday fourth day of the week

Dies Jovis Day of Jupiter (Zeus) Thursday fifth day of the week

Dies Veneris Day of Venus (Aphrodite) Friday sixth day of the week

Dies Saturni Day of Saturn (Hades) Saturday seventh day of the week

_Roman calendar_

While the original Roman calendar was lunar and had ten months (304 days) plus 61 days of 'winter days' by the time this story takes place, we had already changed to the reformed Roman calendar who was articulated as follows (I'm using the version reported by Plutarch).

Ianuarius (29 days) January

Februarius (28 days) February

Martius (31 days) March

Aprilis (29 days) April

Maius (31 days) May

Iunius (29 days) June

Quintilis (31 days) July

Sextilis (29 days) August

September (29 days)

October (31 days)

November (29 days)

December (29 days)

February was split into two parts, each with an odd number of days. The first part ended with the _Terminalia_ on the 23rd, which was considered the end of the religious year; the five remaining days formed the second part. In order to keep the calendar year roughly aligned with the solar year, a leap month (the _Mensis Intercalaris_, sometimes also known as Mercedonius or Mercedinus), was added from time to time between the two parts of February. This caused the second part of February to be incorporated in the intercalary month as its last five days; there was thus no change either in their dates or the festivals observed on them. The resulting leap year was either 377 or 378 days long, depending on whether Intercalaris began on the day after the Terminalia or the second day after the Terminalia.

In the earliest times the three reference dates were probably declared publicly, when appropriate lunar conditions were observed. After reforms were made to the calendar, they occurred on fixed days.

_Kalendae _(from which comes the word 'calendar') aka Kalends. The first day of the month; originally supposed to correspond to the day of the new moon.

_Nonae aka _Nones. The Nones was eight days before the Ides, and fell on the 5th or 7th day of the month, depending on the position of the Ides. (_Nones_ implies _ninth_ because, counting Ides as first, one day before is the second, and eight days before is the ninth). Originally supposed to correspond to the day of the half moon.

_Idus _aka Ides. The 13th day of most months, but the 15th day of March, May, July, and October. Originally supposed to correspond to the day of the full moon.

The day preceding the Kalends, Nones, or Ides was _Pridie. _To make an example, _Prid. Id. Mart._ meant 14 March.

The other days were denoted by ordinal number, counting back from a named reference day. The reference day itself counted as the first, so that two days before was denoted the third day.

Dates were written as _a.d. NN_, an abbreviation for _ante diem NN_, meaning "on the Nth (_Numerus_) day before the named reference day (_Nomen_)".

To make a couple of other examples:

_a.d. III Kal. Nov._ = on the third day before the November Kalends = 30 October.

_a.d. IV Non. Jan._ = on the fourth day before the January Nones = 2 January.

_a.d. VIII Id. Oct._ = on the eight day before the October Ides = 8 October

So when Agrippa says that they are 'three days before the November's kalends' it means that the date is the 29th of October (the three remaining days are 30 – 31 – 1 [who counts as the first day in the count-down]). I hope that this is clear enough, if it's not please let me know!

_Latin Vocabulary (the terms that haven't been already explained or used)_

_Testudo_ – Turtle

_Eboracum_ – Modern day York


	11. Where reality finally sinks in

_Rating has gone up to M (and will stay as such)._

_This chapter is going to contain mentions of torture, graphical description of violence and death. The aforementioned graphical description will include depiction of blood, fluids and death of a human being. There will also be graphic mention of a fresh corpse._

_From now on, the rating will stay M and appropriate warnings for violence, sex or triggers will be put before the chapter so that you, the readers, will be forewarned (in a way that doesn't spoiler too much spoilers of the story) of what you will be about to read._

_Thank you for the attention._

**-§-break-§-**

**A. D. II Kalend. Nov. 457 A.D / 30 of October 457 A.D.**

_**-The next day-**_

**-§-break-§-**

It was the deep of night, the moment when shadows got thicker.

**-§-break-§-**

Isobel pressed her finger in the dough and then punched it a few times before she went back to mold it. Next to her, Ethelind did the same, humming a tune as she worked on her own lump. Two girls on Isobel left, and the man in front of all of them, were humming in concert with Ethelind, which meant that the song was one of those common tunes everyone seemed to know.

They were making bread, working the dough to soften it and smooth it out before they put it in the oven. It was a daily occurrence, something that in the beginning she had found surprising though she had taken care not to show it too much. Drusus had noted her surprise and had mistaken it for surprise at how the Legion worked, which was why he initially had assigned Ethelind to work with her.

Legions were self-sufficient, Ethelind had explained to her. Even when marching, each soldier had a skillet to bake his bread and a daily dose of grain, bacon and hard-tack biscuits (though that rarely made them great cooks, just able not to burn their food, Ethelind had giggled). On a permanent base, like the Fort they were in was, they cultivated their own food, maintained herds of cattle and bred their own animals to use for meat and furs. They then relied on hunting or paying for the result of others efforts in hunting to replenish their stocks (Cohorts nearer to the sea than they were resorted to fishing or buying fish too).

In their particular case, Commander Castus had made arrangements with the surrounding populations, which was why they received additional food from the surrounding villages. A small number of soldiers, on rotation, was kept busy by the farming efforts and their cattle had been split between them and the local population, whose cattle herders were allowed to keep one animal out of every five born for themselves as a reward for their help.

Since a famine had severely dented many families prospects (a few years before) and Rome had passed on word that the arrival of fresh troops was unlikely at best, Commander Castus had then proceeded to open the doors of the Fort to the locals, allowing them to populate the unused areas of the Fort and to work for the Legion, earning a lower fee than the soldiers but one able to sustain one's family nonetheless (especially since the workers fee didn't suffer from the docking the legionaries own suffered from).

It was why Ethelind worked at the Fort, but her brothers (one older and one younger) were never around. They lived on the outside, one of them taking her to the Fort every morning and back to their house every evening after dinner in the summer months. In the winter months, Commander Castus had assigned Ethelind (and every other worker who lived more than one hour away from the Fort) a room in the Praetorium to spare them the road from the properties to the Fort each day, especially when the snow started to fall (which was due any day now).

Ethelind saw her brothers once a month, now that the winter had come around, when they showed up with pelts, meat and news to exchange for food, medicinal herbs and sestertii. It was going to be her first winter at the Fort, she had confessed to Isobel, eliciting a feeling of camaraderie from her that had been one of the basis of their friendship.

That stability, and the well-stocked reserves that came from the Romans practice and ability in conserving the food and storing it away in quantities large enough, meant that they could afford to bake fresh bread every day. After all, part of the Legionaries's pay got docked for the food they eat (just like they were docked money for new weapons or clothes at the Quaestorium) so if they were paying for it they should well get it, shouldn't they?

It was part of the kitchen routine, the opposite lines of women (the kitchen helpers) and men (the soldiers) working dough and shaping it up under Drusus's critical eye. It was nice, working all in concert, and Isobel didn't mind it at all. It was certainly better than washing clothes or any of the other many tasks she could have been assigned to. It was also a good way to start the day and work her arm muscles, all rolled into one.

Today, Isobel was working her dough with a little more strength than the usual. Since she knew how to perform her the task, well enough to perform it blindfolded at that, her mind was free to pick up the detail of the tune just as it was free to wander to the fact that this was going to be her first day of training.

She was to be here until morning came up, then lessons with the priest (whom she had -_yet_- to meet) before she went back to the kitchens. After the second breakfast and lunch had been served, she was dispensed until dinner and was expected to present herself on the Training Fields. Once there she was going to work under Lamorak's instructions, then start teaching basics of muay thai to those that had volunteered for it (she was going to see how many in the afternoon). Following that, horse-riding with Galahad as her teacher. Lastly, sword-fighting with Dinadan before she was off to the kitchens to help with preparing dinner. Language lessons with Lancelot, to happen after dinner. A bathe and then blessed sleep. Rinse and repeat, alternating Dinadan's lessons for that of a Roman legionary (whose name escaped her at the moment) every other day, until the local equivalent of the week-end, which was practically Gaul's territory, stitching lessons to Lancelot and Dinadan excepted.

Isobel felt already a little drained, but she shrugged off the sensation and got back to work with renewed strength. She needed to be positive about it, since it was all for a good cause, the -_best_- cause wasn't it?

**-§-break-§-**

Cogidubnus eyes were fixed on the tablet he had been handed by Burkhard not even half an hour before, as he dressed.

Unlike the Sarmatians, who had been dispensed from wearing roman armor from their centurion, Cogidubnus clothes and armor were the classical layer upon layer that Romans had used for centuries.

First came the wool breeches, then the long sleeved wool tunic and the _focale_, his skin's only line of defense against chafing from the armor and helmet. He took care to wrap it tight around his neck before he knotted it and pulled the extremities under the tunic. Warm wool socks, two pairs wore one over the other, preceded the pulling on and latching of his _caligae_ and still his eyes were on the tablet Burkhard had left him with.

He pulled on his greaves first, latching them tightly, and then he put on the _manicae_ over the sleeves of the tunic, tugging the latches to make sure they were as tight as they could get. He couldn't afford for them to come loose, so he double-checked them before he recovered his _lorica hamata_ and put it on, listening to the familiar sound of the metal rings clicking one against the other as it slid down his waist.

While most of the other members of the cavalry preferred the use of the _lorica squamata_, Cogidubnus had never felt comfortable with the second and had been quite pleased when his centurion had authorized him to wear the _lorica hamata_ under his _lorica squamata_. It was double the weight, and Cogidubnus had been forced to train until he could demonstrate he could fight with both on as well as with one, but it made him feel safer to wear both.

Even while he was checking that the _lorica squamata_ was latched correctly and tightly, Cogidubnus eyes never left the tablet on his bed. All around him, the other members of his _contubernium_ were still asleep, taking as much advantage as they could from their beds before the morning call sounded. They were about to be deployed on a mission, se to prepare and depart after the _ientaculum_ had been served, so beds were going to be a luxury for at least the next week.

Cogidubnus would have been sleeping too, just like them, hadn't Burkhard come in to hand him the tablet he couldn't take his eye off from. It was from Commander Castus, the authorization Cogidubnus had requested more than two months ago, and had been waiting for since.

The interrogators had finally decided that the Saxon capture by Cogidubnus unit two and a half months ago wasn't going to be of any further use, so they were going to get rid of him. What Cogidubnus had asked for, had been the authorization to be the one to dispatch him, -_methods left at his discretion-_.

The Saxon had been part of an invading party his _contubernium_ had intercepted during a mission along the coast. His capture, and the death of the rest of the raiding party, had come at the cost of Cadeyrn's life. Cogidubnus had enlisted not even two days before Cadeyrn and they had been through all of it together. They had been friends, had thought of each like brothers, and Cogidubnus felt that the least he could do for his brother was to personally ensure that the man who had struck him down paid for it with his own life.

It was why Burkhard had woken him up so early, to let him have the time he needed to take care of the Saxon before they departed. Cogidubnus wouldn't have been even half as focused as he usually was, had he been aware that the thieving rapist they had captured was being fed at their expenses instead of being as dead as he could have otherwise been. He needed to square things out before he departed.

At the same time, that also allowed him the opportunity to test the Roman woman and be done with her. This opportunity was perfect for his aims, almost tailored for his needs. He needed to show the woman that she wasn't cut neither for knife fighting nor for killing, to make her realize how unsuited she was to the kind of life she was forcing herself to choose. While there were women able to do what Cogidubnus did, able to kill in cold blood and face the truth of it, Roman women weren't among them. It was a different breed, a weaker one in Cogidubnus eyes, and he was going to show her as much.

He thought about it, about how to break it to her and how to structure the test, as he latched on the _balteus_ over his shoulder and then sheathed his _spatha_ in. He put on his belt, over the _lorica squamata_ and took his _pugio_ knife and sheathed it in. His _pilum_ was against the wall and he left it there for the moment, just like he left his _parma_ shield on the bed once he checked his throwing knives were all secured to the inside of it. Darts were more commonly found in the inside of the shields, but Cogidubnus had his knives and he wasn't going to change them for fucking darts.

He left both shield and _pilum_ in the room, along with his _sarcina_. He, like the others, had prepared his pack the evening before, after he had been informed by Burkhard of their deployment. Apparently it was them, three other Gaul's _contubernium_, one Roman _contubernium_ and a couple of Sarmatians, including Tristan who was apparently needed for his tracking and scouting skills. Cogidubnus was aware of the boy's eerie ability in those two fields, and it actually made him feel less worried about what could happen to know that the boy was going to ride with them. Still, he would have preferred Lamorak to the others they have been assigned to depart with.

Cogidubnus put on his gloves and took the tablet and his helmet, putting on his one-shouldered _sagum_ as he left the room and his fellow legionaries behind. Inhaling the cold air of the morning, once he was out of the Equites quarters, he nodded to one of the sentinels and took off in the direction of the Forum, since it was the closest way to the barracks where the kitchen was situated in.

He had a Roman maid to fetch and scare back into the kitchens, hard enough she wasn't going to poke her head out ever again (except for buying him that fur lined clothes he had been thinking about).

**-§-break-§-**

It was so dark outside, the torches barely cut into the night.

**-§-break-§-**

The bread had been put in the oven and now they were at work over the meat and cheese, cutting them out and down to the sizes required by the Legion's standards. A group of five soldiers and two maidens had been dispatched to fill wineskins with the cheap, sour wine the leaving soldiers were allotted. The water ones had already been filled and prepared to be taken out to the group of soldiers that was to leave the Fort, according to Drusus.

Since it fell on the kitchen to prepare the first day meal of the departing soldiers (and to the officer in charge of the stocked goods to give them the food they would need afterward), the head cook was the one to look at if one wanted to know how many people were going to be in or out of the Fort at any given time. Right now, forty-four men of the cavalry units were slotted to leave the Fort after the _ientaculum_, along with one officer to command them, which meant quite a lot of wineskins and justified the assignment of seven people to the task.

It was routine work. Not as much as making bread, but routine work nonetheless. What wasn't routine, was the arrival of one of the cavalry soldiers (they were the ones with the scaled armor, instead of the plaque armor that the infantry wore) with his helm under his left arm and a tablet in his right hand.

While the work didn't stop, everyone in the kitchen knew better than giving Drusus a change to go on one of his spiels, the entrance of the man drew all eyes to him.

The man was old, in his forties at least Isobel guessed, with a neatly trimmed grey beard and grey going on white short hair, slightly greasy and combed back, receding. He wasn't half as filthy as many of the other men she had seen around and he was clearly one of the veterans. It was clear not only in his age, but in the way he moved and handled himself. His eyes were cold as they swept along the people in the kitchen, stopping on her for a few seconds before the soldier's attention shifted to Drusus, who had immediately approached him to see what the man had come to the kitchens for.

"Most veterans unsettle me, he's no different." Ethelind murmured, at her left, as Isobel refocused her attention back to the strips of meat she was cutting. It wasn't the first time she had heard her friend say as much.

While the Sarmatians, maligned as they were, didn't unnerved her, Ethelind never felt secure and confident around the oldest men. Most of them had hard eyes, hard faces and it was clear they were used to a harsh life. Twenty-five years in the service, before they were released, up there in Arthur Castus's Briton (which sucked ass for them as much as it did for her, from time to time, she supposed) meant a long stretch of battles, lost friends and hardships that left even the strongest of them weary and signed. Scarred in their bodies as well as in their minds, with thousand miles stares and, more often than not, a dark countenance.

Some of them, the more outspoken and friendly, Ethelind could deal with. Anyone else, like the one standing next to Drusus, left her friend feeling jittery. Idly, Ethelind wondered what the rates for PTSD where in the _now_, and how the families of the soldiers dealt with getting back sons, husbands and brothers who had been so deeply changed by what they had experienced. Her mind was about to wander down that road, when Drusus voice calling her name caught her attention, making her lose her train of thought.

Putting down the knife she was working with, she exchanged a puzzled look with Ethelind and then moved away from the table and towards Drusus and the soldier.

**-§-break-§-**

They were right about the woman. She wasn't attractive.

She also had to have some Briton blood into her, if not through her parents then through her grandparents at least. She was tall, which Romans rarely were, with nice full tits, which Roman women usually didn't had, and wiry muscles, which Roman could have but their women usually did not. Her hair were brown and braided, her eyes and mouth big, with big teeth. She may have been called cute, after a little observation, but she wasn't anything to keep track of.

Cogidubnus supposed Lancelot was after her tits and her eccentricity more than anything else and then shelved the line of thought, nodding at her when she drew near. She was still going to fail, her prettiness or lack of it notwithstanding.

"Isabella, this is Cogidubnus. He's one of the soldiers who have been deployed away from the Castrum and he has need of talking with you prior to that. It's about one of the tasks Praetor Castus assigned to you and you have to consider yourself excused from the kitchen, this morning, until Cogidubnus says otherwise." Drusus peevishly explained.

The head cook was a slightly fat, aging soldier with an irritable temper and a reputation for being wildly jealous of his workers. Cogidubnus had never before had reason to strike a conversation with him, or try to temporarily poach a member of his kitchen, so he hadn't had the displeasure to meet him until now and he sincerely hoped he wasn't going to have to subject himself to the man, again, anytime soon.

The woman nodded to him and he nodded back to her, adding a nod to Drusus before he left the kitchen, stopping just to take hold of a waterskin and a wineskin from the pile of the ones who had been readied. It wasn't like he wasn't going to get them anyway, wasn't it?

He stopped outside, gesturing for the woman to get a hold of her cloak from the table just inside the kitchens were all the cloaks were piled on, and used the time to latch the leather ties on the two skins to his belt. He tied them carefully, taking the time to do a good job since his now gloved fingers were slightly less limber than they would have been otherwise.

She was wearing Lancelot's good cloak, he recognized easily. That cloak was one of the reasons he had started to think about buying clothes done outside of the Quaestorium. It was heavy but looked extremely warm and the slight sheen of the animal oil it had been imbued with was going to help repelling the drizzle and most kinds of rain. In Cogidubnus's opinion all that cloak needed was a fur lining and then it would have been perfect.

Her hands fumbled a little with the brooch she was using to latch it and, when she lowered them, Cogidubnus recognized a Sarmatian made brooch. It was both the subject, a horse, and the craftsmanship that were telling of the brooch's origins and that betrayed the fact that it had probably come from the same source the cloak had come from. Heh. Apparently Lancelot had lost his head for someone that was far less than stunning. Just this was enough ribbing material to last Cogidubnus and his friends a good few years.

"Come, we have little more than an hour left before the _ientaculum_ and we need to be done before that." He told her, nodding to the side with his head to signal her the direction they were going to take. She said something, sounded like a question, but he didn't pay her all that much attention, concentrating instead on exiting the barracks building and traversing the not so well lighted Forum to reach the sidewalk. It wasn't like he had interest in listening to what she had to say to him.

She wasn't as noisy as most women around there, but she wasn't stealthy either, he noted as they walked, but made no comment on it. He wasn't her teacher and he didn't have to correct her on her faults, so he let it slide and started laying down the rules, instead.

"I will give you a test, in exchange for which you will buy me a few things. If you pass the test, I will rely on you to buy other things for me, at the rates you can get. If you don't, you'll buy what I tell you to and then we will go on to ignore each other. Yes or no answer, do you understand?" He turned to her, on the last one.

He knew his voice was sharp and hard, but he had no time to lose and no sympathy for the woman so there wasn't reason for him to treat her nicely or, well, as nice as he could which was, emphatically, not much.

"Yes." She answered and he nodded once, satisfied, stopping for a moment to make sure they were in a crossing point before he stepped off the sidewalk and on the boulder on the center of the road. She was one to heed directions, then, despite her newly developed reputation for having a heavy hand when she felt insulted, to put it mildly.

"I will give you a task and an hour of time to do it. I expect you to either see it done or accept the fact that you can't and renounce training with me." He told her, slowing down his stride as they neared the cell-block.

He stopped, on the last word, and turned to her, studying her face. They were in the shadows between one torch and the next, not so dark that they couldn't see each other but dark enough that he had to pay attention to distinguish her features. She had no idea what was coming, no idea at all. It didn't make him particularly happy, but it didn't displeased him either. Cogidubnus had no love lost for Romans.

"Are we clear?" He asked her and waited for her "Yes" and the nod of her head. He didn't felt guilty about what he was about to do to her. It was just an hour and then she was going to go back on her kitchens and he was going to gut open the son of a bitch that had killed Cadeyrn.

"Wait here for me." He instructed her and clutched the tablet in his hand tighter as he turned away from her figure and strode onward and to the left, right into the building that worked as the local prison.

**-§-break-§-**

It was cold outside, but not windy. The night was as clear as they got up there, no heavy clouds in sight.

Isobel drew the folds of Lancelot cloak one over the other and tried to ignore the bite of the cold. She reminded herself that her new, heavier clothes were going to be ready in a couple of days and that she was going to have the heavy wool shirts anyway. Tunics were still more popular but she preferred shirts, if only because she was more at ease with them on.

She had no idea what the Gaul, Cogidubnus she reminded herself, had in mind for her or what he wanted her to do. It was too dark for the Training Fields, without a few torches, and even then, the Training Fields were right next to the barracks she worked in and he had taken her to the prison instead.

She had an uneasy feeling, something cold coiling in the pit of her stomach. The man was hard, looked even harder when you looked at him right in the eyes, and she hadn't got from him the impression that he liked her, or wanted her to pass his test. He had flat out ignored her initial questions and then had spoken brusquely to her, shutting down any possibility of a civil dialogue.

He was poised to see her fail, intimidating in a way that made her shiver under the cloak. It did nothing to weaken her resolve, did nothing to made her want to give up, but it didn't made her feel defiant either. It made her feel as if a bucket of water had been dropped on her head, shocking her out of her preconceived notions about how things were going to be and making her take note that things were going to in a way that was unpredictable by her.

She still felt up to the task but, for the first time, she stopped to consider what she was actually going to have to deal with. Exhaustion and muscle pain. Hours of repetitive movements and day after day of hard work, with no handy training montage to skip through it like she had seen in the movies back in the _then_. Pain, lots of it and not only from the muscles but also from the training itself. The possibility of injuries –-, her thoughts went up in smoke when the figure of the Gaul stepped back out of the prison and motioned for her to draw close.

"Come, woman. We don't have time to lose." He ordered her and, puzzled, she followed him in, feeling faintly glad that she was going to get out of the cold soon.

**-§-break-§-**

The woman had looked thoughtful when he had motioned her to follow, but Cogidubnus didn't lingered on it. The _statores_ had reviewed the tablet and allowed him to take the keys to the Saxon's cell, exchanging a few jibes with him about what he was going to do to the man and how it was fucking time for the man to die.

Cogidubnus had warned them that he was taking someone else in, that he had a person he needed to test and that he was going to use the Saxon for it, but they had presumed it was one of the greenest soldiers and hadn't asked him who. If they had, he would have told them the truth, but he had hoped they wouldn't because they would have probably protested or called the Commander and Cogidubnus simply didn't have the time to waste.

Luckily, they had been happy with assuming and had left him and his recruit to it, none of them wanting to leave the hot comfort of the guard's room for the outside or the lower cells. During winter, betting on the people's refusal to leave the hottest rooms was the safest bet one could count on.

He led the woman through the cell block, towards the end and the trapdoor that was there. He passed her a torch, taking it off the wall, and closed his gloved fingers around the heavy metal ring that had been attached to the trapdoor itself. The muscles in his arm strained a little, while he dragged it up, opening it. It was a rectangular, heavy sheet made out of sturdy wood, that opened on stone stairs and a foul smelling basement, where the rest of the prison cells, the one reserved for the worst kind of prisoners, had been built.

He left it open, propped up against the wall, and took the torch from the woman's hand, suppressing a laugh when he saw the way she had wrinkled her nose at the smell coming up. Oh yes, it reeked, and she still had no idea what he had in mind for her, down there. With a wry smirk, he motioned with his head towards the stairs and then went down first, leading the way.

"Knife fighting is about killing." He told her, the humor he had felt at her disgust dropping completely as he remembered what they were here for. He kept his voice low, not wanting to rouse the few prisoners kept down here.

"It's more about killing than any other kind of fighting. You need to be able to watch someone die from up close. Knives are for up close. In and out, just like gutting a fish. Only it's a human throat. Or the gut. You splice open the flesh and see it up close. One needs to have stomach for it." He went on, not bothering with leaving her the time to answer. In his mind, he counted the doors, until he stopped in front of the fourth on his right.

He passed her the torch again, noting the way she had paled but still looked determined. She fancied herself able to do it, able to stomach what knife fighting was. He found it a little funny, but mostly endearing in the way a puppy unaware he was about to be grown for dog fighting was endearing. It was endearment latched with a bit of pity and a huge dose of 'oh well, not my problem'. He turned the heavy key in his head and then used it to open the cell door, swinging it open and motioning for her to get in.

She hesitated for a moment, then nodded and entered, trying to contain the gagging that overcame her as soon as she set foot in the cell. He couldn't see her face, since he was at her back, but he could her the sound of it. He had to admit, it wasn't a pretty sight.

The Saxon had been worked over, by many a talented interrogator. He was filthy, more him than the cell, and he was chained in a corner, hands and ankles and throat to avoid headbutting or biting. Cogidubnus looked at him, feeling the satisfaction that stemmed from knowing that the man had been through two hellish months, suffering and healing just enough to be put through suffering again.

He moved around the woman, letting her see what he was doing, and took the torch from her hand, putting it on one of the metal supports that had been mounted on the walls. He examined the Saxon from a distance, feeling his hand slide down to the _pugio_ knife at his side. The Saxon's eyes, squinting in the sudden light, followed it but he didn't seemed all that intimidated. Cogidubnus didn't mind, he wasn't there to impress the man or scare him.

He turned, giving his back to the Saxon and ignoring his cracked, guttural voice as he spoke in his own language, one that Cogidubnus didn't understood and didn't care to learn. It wasn't as if he couldn't decipher the tone the man was using, taunting and proud. This one hadn't broke, wasn't going to break and he was proud of it. Cogidubnus didn't give a fuck, as long as the man died.

He moved closer to the woman, instead, and took out the knife, offering it to her. She hesitated and he took her wrist. Not fast so that she could again see what he was doing, but he took it and he made her turn her hand, putting the handle of the knife in it and closing her fingers around the handle, shifting them in the correct grip.

"This man is a Saxon, like the ones that destroyed your village. He's a rapist and a member of a riding party. We found him and his friend raping a girl who had already clearly been abused. Since he's not of any further use, it has been decided that it's time for him to die for the crimes he committed against the citizens of the Roman Empire. I have complete discretion over the methods I decide to employ to kill him." He told her and waited for what he had said to sink in, following the progression of emotions on her face.

"I want you to kill him. You have an hour to do it. If you can't, I will understand and do it myself." He added and then nodded to her. Her eyes were growing wide as she understood what he was telling her to do, what his test entailed, but he didn't remained there to see the play of her emotions again.

This was a sink or swim situation, one were she was going to sink and he wasn't going to allow her the time to ask questions or mount a protest or do anything but accept what he had asked of her and realize she wasn't going to be able to do it.

Cogidubnus closed the door and then took off in the direction of the stairs and the guard's room. He was sure he could be able to fleece them out of a few sestertii while he waited for the hour to pass and the moment to finally get his kill to come.

**-§-break-§-**

Olaf had no idea what the Gaul's endgame was, leaving him there with the woman, but she had a knife and they had been closed in, so he supposed she was going to hurt him, one way or another.

He hadn't given them any informations and he wasn't going to either way, no matter what they did to him. He had been whipped, tortured, had felt his bones get broken and then stepped on. They had given him to the Sarmatians as well as the Gauls in addition to his Roman torturers and he hadn't broke. There was no person able to translate his language present, at least judging by the way the woman had reacted to him speaking, but they were probably hoping she could mellow him out or something. Really, it was the only explanation that made sense to him.

Well, she was free to do her worst. Olaf wasn't going to give up anything.

Not to her, not to anyone else.

**-§-break-§-**

The night was at his darkest.

**-§-break-§-**

The idea of death, or violence, didn't unsettled Isobel all that much.

On an intellectual level, she knew she should have been more upset by it than she actually was. She was a daughter of her generation, grown up to violent images displayed for everyone to see, in all of their gruesome glory. Shocking value was what drove most of the media she had been surrounded by, back _then_, and there was little that wasn't just a few clicks away from her eyes.

She had seen most of it. Burns, animal bites, mauled limbs, consequences of nasty looking strains of infections, corpses. There had been blood and gore, stuff that still gave many people nightmares displayed on late night television or in any horror flick worth its salt. CSI and similar programs had taken her inside a body, showed her what was to be seen in it. Ribs and hearts and muscles, open wounds and festering ones. Gangrene and decomposition.

The idea of death and violence, the visual of it, was nothing that could shake her.

She knew what bruises one could see on a rape victim, could easily imagine how the victims of the man chained in the corner of the cell had looked after he had been done with them. She hadn't experienced big nightmares about the bodies she had seen in the village she had woken up in. On the other hand, cooking meat over the fire still left her feeling nauseated because of the smell of the burned bodies, the one that had been strewn around in that same village.

The man in the corner stunk. He reeked of unwashed body, blood, piss and shit. It had made her gag when she had come in and she still was having problems with not emptying her stomach just from the sheer nausea that his smell evoked. He was unkempt, filthy, with dirty hair that may had been blonde at some point but now were darkened by the filth and the greasiness. His face was covered by filth but that just made the contrast with his clear green eyes even stronger. He was defiant, looking at her as if daring her to do anything.

The knife that Cogidubnus had left her was slightly heavy in her hand. She looked down at it, lifting it up a little to examine the weapon. It was curved, looking a little like the outline of a stylized fish. Both sides were sharpened and the blade had been either oiled or greased because it gleamed wickedly. Idly, her mind grabbed on Cogidubnus previous words and dredged up vague memories of something she had read, or heard in some movie, about cutting in a V shape. "Open up a grin in his throat" someone had said, somewhere. She couldn't pin point it, really. She had seen her fair share of this kind of things, her fair share of blood, fictional and photographed and photo-shopped. Even the real thing, drawn out when she had gone to donate her own. She had touched the tube, felt how it was warm under her fingers and off course it was warm, it should have been obvious. The human body was warm and the blood in it had to be warm too, hadn't it?

Isobel realized, with a little start, the morbid turn her thoughts had taken and, even more, how she was actually rambling in her own head. She turned her eyes from the knife to the man in the corner and licked her lips, nervously, as she became keenly aware that she could just wait it out. Stay there and wait for the hour to pass and give up knife fighting, simply as that. She didn't had -_anything-_ to demonstrate, to anyone. She could just wait and then walk out, tell Cogidubnus that she wasn't going to learn knife fighting. She could have done it, it was really simply as that.

She just had to -_wait_-, and so she waited.

But while she was waiting, looking at the clearly puzzled man chained in the corner, she also became aware that this was something she couldn't discount so easily. The minutes trickled by, allowing her the time to realize that this was exactly what she was going to be able to do for herself, if there was no one else to do it for her. It was easy to say 'kill or be killed' but if she wasn't ready to kill, if she wasn't -_able_- to, where did this left her? If she couldn't stomach killing a man in cold blood how was she to know that she wasn't going to lose it in a situation where she would be required to kill and move on, keep going? She had to know if she was going to lose her head or keep her calm, she needed to be able to do the second because her life -_literally_- depended on it.

Oh God, her -_life_- depended, partially, on her ability to -_kill_-. Her whole life may come to hinge on her ability in taking a knife to someone's throat and slit it open. In using a sword to hack at them and see them die at her hand. This was the kind of world she was in, -_this_- was -_her life_- now. It hit her, suddenly, the reality behind all the things she had been doing, all the things she had been learning. Isobel was being taught how to take out lives, how to kill other people. This was not fun, this was not … learning so that you could look cool in front of your friends! And she had -_known_- it, on an intellectual level, but it was different now.

Now it was like seeing it for the first time, getting hit by a train of images and know 'This is what you're going to cause, this is what you may have to do.' It took her breath away, made it quick, and she gripped her hand around the hilt of the dagger. It was her or them, it was either knowing how to do it or let defiant, arrogant man like the one in the corner rape and kill her, if they managed to get the chance. -_This was the world she was living in_-.

She lost her battle against the nausea and doubled up, free hand pressing against the stone wall as she retched all over the pail near her feet. -_This was the world she was living in_-, and no matter how much she had tried to adapt to it and make it work, she had still a long way to go. A long way to go that required her to be able to spill blood, in the heat of the moment maybe but spill it nonetheless.

Cogibudnum expected her to fail, she was sure of it. Everyone would have expected her to fail, surely. While strong under many regards, the women she had seen at the Fort didn't had it in them to kill someone this way. They relied on the men to keep them safe, relied on the protection offered to them by the soldiers and their husbands and sons. While they could have maybe taken up some kind of improvised weapon in the heat of the moment, none of them had it in them to train with weapons, to learn about them. Ethelind and Antonia Minor had looked up at her in awe, because they knew this wasn't for them and that they wouldn't been able to do it themselves. Flavia and Justinia had looked down at her with pity and distaste for the same reason, because in their vision of the world this was not something to be awed by but something to be ashamed of. Well, it was easy for them to see it as a dirty stain, they weren't neither in the position she was in nor they were her, weren't they?

She had set herself on a course that was the most practical and savvy one, intellectually speaking. It was a course that was going to require calluses from handling weapons, muscles to raise them and the ability to get her hands bloody when it was needed to. Just like she had learned to kill rabbits and what she still saw as 'farm animals of the littler kind' to cook them, she was going to have to learn to kill men, something that no one thought she was going to be able to do.

Drawing herself up, Isobel hanged Lancelot's cloak over one of the metal supports on the wall and turned toward the filthy Saxon and looked at him, appraising him. His hands were chained over his head, his feet chained apart and there was a ring around his throat, keeping his head from dipping or moving too much, possibly to stop him from biting his captors.

He was completely defenseless.

Her still alive practice dummy. Her first victim. He was looking at her and there was uncertainty on his face, made strong enough by his confusion that it was showing openly enough that she could see both clearly. Something in her face seemed to spook him, because his muscles tensed and his eyes grew wide for a moment, before they narrowed. The uncertainty washed away, replaced by rage and spite and his mouth opened to let loose a torrent of harsh sounding words. They normally would have made her flinch but Isobel was feeling an eerie calm settling on her, now that her course of action had been decided.

Had he been able to, this man would have raped and killed her. She was going to kill him and that was that. It couldn't be that hard, she had seen it happen time and time again even though it had always been fictional. Cogidubnus words came back to her. -"_In and out, just like gutting a fish. Only, it's a human throat._"-. She had gutted fishes before, she reminded herself as she took a deep breath through her mouth. It couldn't be that hard, could it?

She advanced towards him, ignoring the constant stream of furious words that he was spitting out. It washed over her, completely ignored, as she focused her attention on his throat. His Adam's apple was bobbing up and down as he kept up his talking. Was it going to offer more resistance than a fish? She wondered about it in the seconds needed to cross the cell and get herself in front of him.

He stunk even worse, up close, and he was surely crawling with beasts and the likes. She didn't felt the usual wave of nausea, though. Yes, he reeked and he was surely infested but she was about to kill him. Smell, fleas and lice didn't really mattered here or in the long run. She was about to put a knife in the throat of the man whose rancid breath and spit were hitting her face as he bit out harsh words at her. She kept her eyes on her throat until she was so close she could almost touch him, and then raised them to meet his green own.

"I was Isobel Donner and I'm not as sorry about this as I should probably be." She told him, in english. The words weren't as rusty on her tongue as she had feared them to be and he couldn't understand her but she needed to say it, to hear it out loud in a language that no one but her was going to understand for -_centuries_-. It was, that of centuries, just a concept, one that she couldn't really grasp.

What she had instead finally grasped, what had finally sunk in and become real, was the truth of her situation, the scope of it.

"I am Isabella Antonia and you have to die, because I will not die if I can help it." She continued, in Latin, completely ignoring the way he had been shocked in silence by her use of a language he hadn't heard before. She raised the knife and posed it at his throat. This was it, in and out, like gutting a fish, couldn't be that hard could it?

Months of hard work had made her physically strong. The training she was going to subject herself to was going to make her even stronger. The flesh yielded under the knife and it was just a matter of seconds, pressing in with a wet sound and there was already blood, there was blood gushing out, spraying on her and the man was choking. She stopped, muscles freezing and the blade deep into his neck, eyes running up to lock on his.

He looked shocked, scared and in pain, in so much pain, blood bubbling on his lips as his words died in a gurgled sound and it was -_her_- who was doing -_this_- to -_him_-. She drew the blade across, tried to slash through his neck, but she hit something hard and oh God, was that his -_collarbone_-? His eyes were going glassy and she yanked the knife out and then right back in, drawing to the other side of the neck and managing to avoid the bone this time.

He didn't looked relieved, though, he looked -_dead_- and there was the stink of fresh shit and piss, there was hot blood on her face and hands and dress and she had made a fucking -_hack job_- of it. She had cut bad and too deep and his green eyes were glassy and he was -_dead_- and he -_still_- looked in pain. This had been no mercy kill, no clean cut execution, but a painful shitty death and -_she_- had been the one who had done it.

She turned her head and, propping a hand on the wall to keep herself up, retched again, emptying what little was left in her stomach on the ground.

**-§-break-§-**

The dawn drew near and, a few miles away, storm clouds gathered.

**-§-break-§-**

Isobel didn't sat down, after she had threw up. Instead, she panted and tried to gather herself back together.

She had -_killed_- a -_man_-.

She had killed a man -_in cold blood_-.

This was not unarmed fighting. This was not self-defense. She had had no reason to kill that man, but her own need to do it. She was the kind of person who, when push came to shove, would be able to kill a man if it came down to it.

She was trembling, she realized idly, and watched the way her hand was pressed against the cold stone of the wall. The blood on her was getting colder by the second. The blood on her. The Saxon's blood. The Saxon's blood on her face, hands and dress.

She dry heaved and then concentrated on breathing, on putting the pieces back together.

She had just killed a man, in cold blood, because she needed to do it to learn how to kill more.

She hadn't killed him because it pleased her, she hadn't killed him because it was necessary to a big cause, she hadn't killed him because there was no other choice.

She had chosen to kill a man because it was necessary for her to learn a skill, because she needed to be able to do it. Because, because, because.

Bottom line: she had just killed a man, she was botched it up and she was covered in blood.

Her dress was ruined, she realized idly (again, her brain noted), and she was still trembling.

Isobel made the conscious decision of pushing herself upright again. She turned back to the man and tried not to flinch at the sight of his head. It was lolling to the side, half hacked off, and the spine was showing. Or was it the collarbone? She wasn't sure, she didn't remembered, -_the head was lolling to the side_- and -_she had done it_-.

She made to touch him, before she could think, but then she stopped and dashed her hand away. She didn't wanted to touch him. She didn't wanted to, didn't wanted -_at all_-.

He was dead, surely crawling with beasts, filthy, he had crapped himself by the smell of it and had she mentioned he was -_dead at her hand_-?

Isobel breathed in and then promptly turned away, dry heaving again until there was nothing left in her to dry heave.

She needed to keep it together, needed to remind herself of who she was and why she had did it. She needed to remember that this was for the best, who the man was and that he was going to die anyway, no matter what she would have or wouldn't have done. She needed to remember who she was and why she had did it, that it was necessary and the right thing.

She needed to know who she was and the why.

She -_needed_- to.

**-§-break-§-**

The first thing Cogidubnus noticed, when he opened the door to the cell with heavier pockets, was the smell of shit, piss and vomit. Then his eyes got accustomed to the darkness of the cell and he noticed the blood.

It was drying up. Her face, hands and the front of her dress were drenched in it. His blade too. She was standing there, just out of the reach of the door, looking at him with shaken eyes, her face so pale it looked like fresh snow under the blood. For a moment, they both just stood there, she looking at him and he looking at her, his brain scrabbling as he tried to take in what that amount of blood could only mean. Then his eyes dashed to the corner the Saxon had been chained in and the reality of the situation hit him at full force.

She had done it. Up close, possibly as close as she could get to him by the quantity of blood she was covered by. It hadn't even been a clean kill. The neck looked like it had taken a couple of hits and the head was lolling to the side, the bloodied collarbone partially showing. It was an awful job, though the biggest cut didn't looked all that bad. Like the recruit that she was, she must have panicked and tried to end it quickly, with the only result of making it worse.

Cogidubnus didn't care much about the pain the man must have suffered. Served him well, for killing Cadeyrn and going around raping and killing the people Cogidubnus had been charged to protect. Even better that he had died in considerable pain, by blood loss more than anything else probably. It must have been as slow as it could get (still pretty fucking fast, since she had severed the jugular from what he could see from there) and this suited the Gaul more than well. Still, he found it hard to believe even with the evidence standing there for him to see.

The woman had -_gone through_- with it. She had put the blade to the man's neck and had cut it open, killing him like a pig at the slaughter. It was with new-found respect and no little amazement that Cogidubnus turned his eyes back on the woman standing still in front of him, still holding the bloodied knife. She had actually -_done_- it.

"I am Domina Isabella Antonia. I am -_not_- going to rely on others to be protected. I -_know_- protection will not always be granted to me. I -_will not_- die if I can help it. I -_won't_- shy from killing others if it means -_I_- will live on." She told him, her head held high even though her voice was trembling and she looked pale and shaken. She wasn't proud, there was no happiness in her at the thought, but she was determined and burning with will to live. This, Cogidubnus could understand.

He closed the distance between them and took her face in his hands, cupping her jaw on both sides as he dropped a kiss on her forehead. She was young enough to be his daughter and, had he had one of those he would have liked for her to be like this. Aware of the ugliness of the land and ready to do what was needed to be done to live on, to prosper in it.

"Good girl, this is exactly how you look at things." He complimented her and then caught her when she let go of his knife, which clattered on the stone pavement, and wrapped her arms around his chest, hiding her bloody face against his shoulder.

"I know." She said, muffled, and there was sorrow in her tone as her hands gripped his armor and held onto it.

Yes, she knew.

She had understood what he hadn't even tried to explain to her. It was kill or be killed, especially in a province like this one. Roman women could cowardly hide behind their husbands and families and try to ignore the reality around them, ignoring the constant shadow of fear they lived under and learning to forget about its existence unless an emergency came upon them. Non Roman women could try to do the same, many did, allowing themselves to feel secure in the knowledge the the army was there to bleed and die enforcing their protection.

Cogidubnus had pegged Isobel as a woman who didn't had the brain to understand neither what she was getting into nor the consequences of her choices. He had even been right, up to a certain point, but he was now being proven wrong by the woman that was trembling in his arms.

A woman who had seen her village razed, her family destroyed and had now sat for the Gods knew how much time in a cell with the bloodied body of a man who had died by her hand. A woman who had taken off the blinders and looked at the world around her hard enough to see that, in her position, the only way out was to learn how to do what he did, what the soldiers did.

How to kill and live with it, because it didn't had to come down to your life or theirs if you were skilled enough to take theirs first. It was useless to learn how to fight, if you didn't have the resolve to go through with a killing blow and the ability to bounce back from it.

This kind of woman, he could work with and on. More than that, he wanted to.

Isabella was trembling in his arms and Cogidubnus suspected her of crying, though silently. He didn't begrudged her this moment of weakness. He understood that this was about more than just this specific kill. Her silent tears about hundreds of things, ranging from the life she had just taken to the fact that she had no one to turn to, no one to confirm to her that yes, she was doing the right thing and going at it in the right way. Cogidubnus kept her close, and said nothing, letting her cry it out.

She was strong enough to kill and strong enough to search for arms to hold her when she finally allowed herself to shatter down in pieces. He carded his hand through her hairs, remembering the soothing movement from the one he had received from his mother when he had been ill as a kid, and said nothing, letting her sob it out as he held her in his arms.

This was her moment of weakness, and she had chosen him as the one she had turned to. One gentle gesture, a whispered phrase and she had come undone. Epiphanies could do that to a person, especially if they happened when the person was already at the end of its rope. He knew, now, that she wouldn't have fared well in training, had this not happened.

It was necessary for her and he had been the one who had put her in the position she needed to be pushed in for it to happen. He was the one who had unraveled her and that meant that she was his responsibility now. It was on her to piece herself back together, and on him to oversee as much of it as it could and teach her what she needed to be taught to strike her enemies down.

It would take time for her to open to anyone else, because this was her opening herself to someone. There was no need for a tearful confession, no words had to be exchanged and there was no reason for her to entrust him with her secrets, not yet. To allow someone to see her like this, to hold her while she cried, was a sign of trust far greater than any long winded exchange of words.

Everyone knew that Lancelot was courting her, the _statores_ he had played dice with had confirmed to him as much. But it was not a lover she needed. Not now and not for this. She needed a man who wasn't going to want her to open her legs, someone she would be able to turn to and talk to without sexual attraction spoiling things between them.

Cogidubnus was forty-five, in the cavalry since he had been her age and with still five years to go before he was free again. He was far more than old enough to be her father and there was no attraction at all, between the two of them.

He had given her the knife, pushed her in the situation needed for her to realize what it meant to take the road she was taking and, after the deed was done, he had reassured her. He had put himself in the position of being the one she had turned to and now he was going to live with the consequences.

He didn't minded it, though, not now that he had seen what kind of cloth she was cut off from. Roman she may have been born but she had turned out different from any Roman woman Cogidubnus had ever met. Roman women could be ruthless but theirs wasn't the ruthlessness the woman in his arm possessed. It was more insidious and crafty, poisonous words and puppet acts where they hands never ended up bloody.

This one was different.

_Sui iris_ she may have claimed to be, referring to the fact that she had no blood relatives left living and no husband to take care of her, but right here and then, Cogidubnus claimed her as his own.

As he held her in his arms, looking at the body of the man she had so clumsily gutted hanging from the wall, he hardened his resolve and made a vow. It was a vow made to the sacred triad of Teutates, Esus and Taranis, one he was going to validate with all the blood he was going to spill from his enemies in the coming year. All of his kills and all the wounds he was going to inflict, all the spilled blood dedicated to them and spilt in their names as an offer for their blessing and acceptance of his vow.

Blood they may not share, but he was going to see to it that she became the warrior she had the potential to be. That much he vowed, may the Gods be witness to it.

**-§-break-§-**

Dawn rose, in a reddish haze despite the not so far sound of thunders.

**-§-break-§-**

**Author Note**

I know this chapter is a little shorter than the previous ones, but I hope you will find it satisfying all the same! This chapter has been only partially beta-ed by the always wonderful **KyuubiPaw** so whatever errors are left, you can assume they are mine. Also, thanks to you all well wishers, my shoulder now is finally as good as new and I'm again free to type at my heart content!

It was kind like a birthing process for me, to write it out, because of the psychological and emotional fall out of what happens in it. I knew it was going to happen since I started writing the story, it's an important step for Isobel to go through, since a little part of her was still clinging to the idea that things were going to be if not easy, not as complicated as they are actually going to be, instead. The full scope of the reality around her has finally sunk in and this will change her, push her into becoming a different person from the one she is now (which is needed for her to survive in the world she's in).

While she was aware before, Isobel was still somewhat entertaining a flawed idea of what the world around her was. She was insulated by the reality by the mental disconnect that is typical of our culture. While we, like her, are used to the sight and visual of violence and we may be able to learn how to exercise it, most of us aren't really the kind of persons (deep down) who are able to be good soldiers, much less what at the time was considered a good warrior.

Isobel had it in her, she needed to bring it out and confront how far her reality had come from her previous life. Now she can really start growing as a character in her own environment as traumatic as this was.

If you want to imagine Cogidubnus you can go to google images and search for Callum Keith Rennie. Please be aware that the images I will upload on my profile (because I will, I just need the time to do as much) are from his latest, when he has grey hair and beard. Like he was in Harper's Island (where his character went by the name of Wakefield) and unlike he was in Due South (on which he was Ray Kowalski), people!

He's going to feature a lot, in the fic, when he's not sent around on missions, so I hope you liked him and I would like to know what you think both of him and of how he behaves.

As you may have noted, I added the date up high. I've decided that, from now on, I will keep track of the dates and add them to the chapters so that you will be able to track the passage of time in the course of the story. Since all of us like our history, I've decided to put it double so that you won't be forced to make the calculations in your mind but can still enjoy the use of the Roman calendar. I hope you like the idea :)

Regarding the OCs, almost no one got back to me on that and I was about to chuck the idea when the wonderful **Ri-chan** sent me a really awesome OC. Thank you **Ri-chan**, you made up a really great character and I already have plans on how to insert her in the story and what to do with her, your contribution is really appreciated!

Now, on to answering your kick-ass reviews :D

**Soaring Hawk**:Thank you for the review! Hee you'll get a few detailed history notes this time around :)! Wow, your major sound really awesome to me, I hope it's as interesting for you as it sounds to me! And wow again, your new review reached me just as I was about to upload the new chapter, talk about timing! Don't worry, you're not being pushy, I'm sorry it took so long to update but this chapter has been difficult because I needed to balance the emotions in it and be sure I didn't neither overdid it nor downplayed the consequences of her actions and decisions. I hope you liked it, and I will try to get the new one out sooner!

**Victoria**: Bonjour at toi aussi (and I think that's the extension of my high school french XD). Hee I'm happy you like the insults, they are fun to come up with. Thanks, I did most of the job myself with the english (the teaching level in my school years was … let's say the less said the better). Woow Korean _and_ Japanese? I admire you girl, if only for the sheer size of your balls. I know a handful of japanese, from a beloved Guide To Japan that I possess (and what I was able to learn from manga and such) but I am aware of how difficult of a language it is, especially the writing part! Hee, I like OC with morals too. They make the story all the more interesting, though as you can see in this chapter, sometimes while we are moral on one thing we aren't moral an another one (and morals can change with time). I always found the subject of morals interesting because, like many parts of our social behavior, our morals are dictated or judged by the society we live in and different societies worked on a different set of morals than the one we possess. Isobel is learning it, will have to learn it again in the future. What's moral to her, isn't always moral to others (though on some things it is). As you can see, I'm still keeping to historical accuracy ;) and don't worry about rambling I loved your review, it made me all fuzzy and happy (and I'm a rambler myself as you can see XD).

**Kristall**: Hee, there will be consequences and opinions will change. Cogidubnus has already learned that she isn't to be lumped with other Romans and he will learn to know her better with time, just like the others ;). While I love fluff too, realism sometimes comes to the expenses of fluff (though we can have realistic fluff too and there will be some of it in the future ;D). I'm sorry to hear about your relationship *hug* and I hope it will get better with time or that it doesn't make you suffer too much before the situation resolves itself. I know I'm a complete stranger but if you ever feel the desire or need to talk it out, feel free to contact me (I have skype). Sometimes even the ear of a complete stranger can be a good thing. *hugs you again*

**DGfleetfox**: HEE! Yes we're getting somewhere indeed and we will keep getting somewhere ;). I must admit that I'm kind of rooting for Lancelot and Tristan on alternated phases, depending on what I'm writing and the mood I'm in ;). Isobel is going to have some figure out to do and, well, I won't give out spoilers but let's say that there are many years to come in front of us and no little surprises ;) I came back as soon as I could and wrote you this chapter, hope you enjoyed it!

**X0Skay0x**: I'm happy that you're liking both the story and the Historical Notes, I'm really having fun with all of it! Also thank you for adding my story to your alerts!

**Ri-chan**: It's a pleasure for me to know that you enjoy my story and it's me that thanks you for taking the time not only to write that review but also to fill out that form! You've given me quite an interesting OC and I already have plans drawn up for how she can fit in the story. I don't know how soon she will appear (plot being needed and all) but rest assured that I will happily use her in a way that I hope you will approve of ;)

**Spooks94**: You want to know a secret? Dinadan is fast becoming one of my favorites too, damn him and his charm XD. I tell you, I'm sorely tempted to dunk them all and wash them, bodies and hair included (especially the hair, who would need special treatment to get rid of what's probably living in there *shudders*), but the characters would sooner walk in an ambush than wash with regularity (Lancelot not included, but Lancelot now has a reason to keep himself clean *snickers*). Hee, I'm happy that you like my writing style and Dinadan wants me to let you know that it's his firm belief that if Lancelot doesn't get laid soon you may end up reading about Lancelot shacking up with the pretty little mare three stalls down... aaand now my muses are having a brawl ;). Good to know about the 'gators and hee, you're from the bayou? That's awesome, I love that part of the US of A. The language, the music, the food, the sights... wow, I'm actually kind of a little envious.

**withered sage**: Thanks for adding my story to your alerts, it's really appreciated! :)

**Scottjunkie**: Thanks for the awesome review! I'm happy that you are loving my story and, as always, I'm really happy with the success of the Historical Notes. Also, I'm always glad to find people who like or share my sense of humor ;), the more the merrier! I note down your preference and, like I said to DGfleetfox, there are years to come. It may very well happen and it may not, but I'm sure it will be an interesting ride for all of us! I'm content that you like the realism I'm trying to inject in the story. While it may be interesting to have romanticized notions and clichès, I like to work against the same and instead keep my characters grounded because realism provides us with more than enough drama to work with. Instant skills are a pet peeve of mine because I did many sports (and excelled in none) and I know very well how hard it actually is to work on your skills. It always made me feel really well with myself, to be successful in something after all the work I put into it. While I won't chronicle every hour of work Isobel gets through, you will be able to see that her skill are going to come from a long process (especially because she doesn't have a natural talent for any of them [another thing that in many fics is used as a shortcut much to my displeasure]) and I think that's going to make them more meaningful and satisfying to read about for you and write about for me (not to mention Isobel's own POV ;D). Thanks for reviewing and adding my story to your alerts!

**LongLive11**: Thanks for adding my story to your favorites!

**RayC736**: Thank you very much for both the alert and the favorite, they are very much appreciated!

**Shinkirin**: I'm happy you decided to add my story to your alerts, thank you very much!

And, last but not least, the Historical Notes are coming up girls and boys!

**Historical Notes**

_Legionary Diet_

A Roman Legion was made up by a vast body of men who all required food. A soldier's daily grain ration was the equivalent of 1.5 kg (ca. 3 lb 5 oz), which was generally supplemented with other foods.

However, this meant that the total consumption of grain was around 7500 kg a day. Together with up to 500 kg of fodder for the animals this made a substantial amount of food.  
>Because of that, in military bases, the units were heavily involved in their own supply. Land was set aside for the use of the military to plant crops and graze their animals. These lands were referred to either as <em>prata<em> (meadow), or simply as _territorium_ (territory).  
>Herds of cattle were also kept, watched over by soldiers called <em>pecuarii<em> (herdsmen).

In some areas though grain could simply not be grown on the scale required and had to be imported. Merchants would fulfil the function of shipping the grain (along with other items of both edible and not condition) from its point of origin to the army bases. But so too veterans and even some acting soldiers were involved in the trade. Wine beer and olive oil had largely to be imported.

Further food was brought in by hunting expeditions. Archaeologists have unearthed the remains of deer, foxes, even bears in the scrap heaps of military camps.

Each soldier ate about 1/3 of a ton of corn a year. It is estimated that just the soldiers in Britain ate over 33.5 tons of corn a day. A soldier always marched with at least a good supply of bacon, hard tack biscuits, and sour wine. An army was often accompanied by a herd of cattle, a mobile food source.

While the soldiers were on long campaigns, such as Caesar's conquest of Gaul, the supplies would run low, and the army would take from anyone it passed. If they were stationed somewhere, they struck bargains and commercial relationships with the locals to replenish their bases and gather new resources they could count on.

When on station, the soldiers ate considerably better. They always maintained a herd of cattle, sometimes herding other animals such as sheep and goats, grew corn and other crops, including vegetables, and foraged for variety. Naturally, the diet varied somewhat, depending on the terrain, as some crops could not grow in certain areas, and the local fauna varied. For example, a unit in Corbridge is known to have eaten hares, deer, foxes, badgers, beavers, voles, wild oxen, and moles, while one in Benwell ate fresh-water mussels, and a unit in the Valkenburg ate a variety of poultry, such as chicken, duck, petrels, cormorants, herons, spoonbills, mallards, teals, geese, cranes, and crows.

Perhaps the most significant fact about the Roman soldier's diet is that there are no recorded complaints about it.

The _Vindolanda_ tablets provide a good source of information about the dietary requirements of the Roman Army stationed at Hadrian's Wall. It is especially informative about the food ordered for the Commanding Officer who like other rich Romans enjoyed meats such as venison and wild Boar. The following tablet, found at Vindolanda, contained a 'shopping list'; of the food that was probably intended to feed the garrison.

"_... bruised beans, two modii, twenty chickens, a hundred apples, if you can find nice ones, a __hundred or two hundred eggs, if they are for sale there at a fair price. ... 8 sextarii of fish-sauce ... a modius of olives ... To ... slave of Verecundus._"

"The Roman Army consumed a healthy combination of simple high-energy food.

Bread was their staple food and grain production was increased throughout Britain to meet the demand from the army. They used large 'beehive' bread-ovens positioned in and out of the Fortresses both, sometimes giving them in the hands of local persons, allowing them to bake into it as long as they helped the production of bread for the Fort they were near to.

Accounts from Vindolanda indicate that Roman soldiers also ate a lot of bacon. Every group of eight soldiers had a frying pan that folded away in their pack and enabled them to have a fry-up even on campaign.

They also ate porridge and stews would have included meat and vegetables. Soldiers snacking at the Fortress Baths in Caerleon certainly ate lots of chicken and bones discovered there had been boiled white. Wild boar was another favourite treat that the soldiers could have bought from the bathhouse vendors.

_Legionary Pay_

From the time of Gaius Marius onwards, legionaries received 225 denarii a year (equal to 900 sestertii); this basic rate remained unchanged until Domitian, who increased it to 300 denarii. In spite of the steady inflation during the 2nd century, there was no further rise until the time of Septimius Severus, who increased it to 500 denarii a year.

However, the soldiers did not receive all the money in cash, as the state deducted their pay with a clothing and food tax. To this wage, a legionary on active campaign would hope to add the booty of war, from the bodies of their enemies and as plunder from enemy settlements. Slaves could also be claimed from the prisoners and divided amongst the legion for later selling, which would bring in a sizable supplement to their regular pay.

All legionary soldiers would also receive a sizable sum of money (_praemia_ = reward) on the completion of their term of service (twenty-five years for everyone but the Sarmatians): 3000 denarii from the time of Augustus onwards and/or a plot of good farmland (good land was in much demand); farmland given to veterans often helped in establishing control of the frontier regions and over rebellious provinces. Later, under Caracalla, the _praemia_ increased to 5000 denarii (our case).

_Legionary armor_

The legionaries tended to be on the buff side of the scale because of all the amour they wore and fought with. Armor and weapons were the following:

Personal Weapons

Pugio: a _pugio_ was a dagger, probably a sidearm. Generally, it had a large, leaf-shaped (or fish shaped depending on one's own opinion) blade 18 to 28 cm long and 5 cm or more in width. A raised midrib ran the length of each side, either simply standing out from the face or defined by grooves on either side. It was changed by making the blade a little thinner, about 3mm, and the handle was also made out of metal. The tang was wide and flat initially, and the grip was riveted through it, as well as through the shoulders of the blade.

The hilt was made with two layers of horn, wood or bone sandwiching the tang, each overlaid with a thin metal plate. Often the hilt was decorated with inlayed silver. Note that the hilt is 10–12 cm long overall and that the grip is quite narrow; which may make it seem to be too small but in fact this produced a very secure grip. An expansion or lump in the middle of the handle makes the user's grip even more secure.

Gladius: this is the general Latin word for " sword". In the Roman Republic the term 'Gladius Hispaniensis' (Spanish Sword) referred (and refers today) specifically to the short sword, 60 cm (24 inches) long. Several different better-known designs followed, they can be tracked down on re-enactors websites.

Spatha: a spatha could be any sword (in late Latin) but most often one of the longer swords characteristic of the middle and late Roman Empire. In the 1st century, Roman Cavalry started using these longer swords, and in the late 2nd or early 3rd century, Roman infantry also switched to longer swords, as well as mostly changing from carrying javelins to carrying spears

Shorter weapons (short swords and possibly sometimes daggers) were known as semispathae or half-swords.

Spears & Javelins  
>Javelin: Although Romans often used the word <em>pila<em> to refer to all thrown javelins, the term _pilum_ also means specifically the heavy Roman throwing javelin of the legions. Lighter, shorter javelins existed.Pilum: The _pilum_ (plural _pila_) was a heavy javelin commonly used by the Roman Army in ancient times. It was generally about two metres long overall, consisting of an iron shank about 7 mm in diameter and 60 cm long with pyramidal head. The iron shank may be socketed or more usually widens to a flat tang, this was secured to a wooden shaft. A pilum usually weighed between two and four kilograms, with the versions produced during the Empire being a bit lighter.

Pila were designed to penetrate both shield and armour, wounding the wearer, but if they simply stuck in a shield they could not easily be removed. The iron shank would bend upon impact, weighing down the enemy's shield and also preventing the pilum from being immediately re-used.

Bows

Bow: The soldiers known as _sagittarius _was armed with the bow (_arcus_), shooting an arrow (_sagitta_) with a wooden shaft and iron head. The normal weapon of Roman archers was the classic composite bow made of horn, wood, and sinew held together with hide glue. However, it was sometimes recommended to training recruits "arcubus ligneis", with wooden bows. The reinforcing laths for the composite bows are found throughout the empire. Specific populations were allowed to use their own bows.

Dart

Late infantryman often carried half a dozen lead-weighted throwing-darts called plumbatae (from _plumbum_ = "lead"), with an effective range of ca. 30 m, well beyond that of a javelin. The darts were carried clipped to the back of the shield. Sometimes, if a soldier preferred knives, knives could be substituted in the plumbatae's stead.

Torso armor

Legionary soldiers of the 1st and 2nd centuries used a variety of armour types. Some wore mail shirts, while others wore scale armour or _lorica segmentata_ or laminated-strip cuirass. This last type was a complex piece of armour which in certain circumstances provided superior protection to the other types of Roman armour, mail armour (_lorica hamata_) and scale armour (_lorica squamata_) the last of which was usually used by the cavalry, among others.

Testing of modern replicas have demonstrated that this kind of armour was impenetrable to most direct and missile strikes. It was, however, uncomfortable without padding: re-enactors have confirmed that wearing a padded undergarment known as a 'subarmalis' relieves the wearer from bruising both from prolonged wear and from shock produced by weapon blows against the armour. It was also expensive to produce and difficult to maintain.

You can find images on google images if you want to search for them.

Limb armourManica: From early Imperial times to after the fall of the Western Empire, some troops wore a segmented armour (armbands) known as manica on one or both arms.Greave :Greaves, sheet metal protecting the legs, were widely used in the late Republic, and by some troops in the Imperial army.Shields

There were two types of shield:

The classic, rectangular one used to create the _testudo_, known as _scutum_, and the less used parma who was a yard across (or less) and had iron in its frame, making it a very effective piece of armor. Parma had a handle and a shield boss (umbo). The parma was very effective in the act of blocking arrows.

Helmets: I think we all have a good idea of the type of helmets the Romans used ;)

Clothing under the armor:

Tunic: a basic garment worn under the armour by all soldiers in the Republic and early Empire. Normally made of wool. Tunics originally consisted simply of a piece of rectangular cloth sewed to an identical piece, with holes for the arms and head left unsewn. Later, it became fashionable for tunics to be produced with sleeves, and worn with braccae.

Focale: scarf worn by Roman legionaries to protect the neck from chafing caused by constant contact with the soldier's armor (typically lorica hamata or lorica segmentata) and helmet.

Balteus: Sword belt worn across the chest in a diagonal sense.

Braccae: trousers or breeches.

_Subligaria_: underpants. Their existence was confirmed by one of the Vindolanda tablets. Cogidubnus didn't mention them because he slept in them and so they were already on.

Cloak: two types of cloaks were used, the sagum and the paenula. Both were made from wool, which insulated and also contained natural oil to repel water. It was fastened by fibulae (brooches). The paenula was hoosed in colder climates and looked more like a poncho than anything else, while the sagum covered both shoulders but only one side of the body (which is why Cogidubnus uses it, since it gives him more liberty of movement).

Caligae: military boots worn by Roman legionaries and auxiliaries throughout the history of the Roman Republic and Empire. The boots were made from leather and laced up the center of the foot and onto the top of the ankle. Iron hobnails were hammered into the sole for added strength. Similar to the modern cleat.

Pteruges: skirt of leather or fabric strips that is worn around the waist to protect the upper legs. Pteruges could be fitted with small metal studs and plates to provide additional protection. They weren't obligatory, in the times our story is set, outside of parades and official occasions.

Sarcina  
>Military pack carried by legionaries. The pack included a number of items suspended from <em>furca<em> or carrying pole (this is were the idea of the stake with the sack of item when running away from home came from).  
>Items carried in the pack include:<p>Loculus: a leather satchel.<p>

Water skin: Roman camps would typically be built near water sources, but each soldier would have to carry his water for the day's march in a waterskin.

Food: Each legionary would carry some of his food. Although a Roman army on the move would typically have a baggage train of mules or similar to carry supplies such as food, legionaries were required to carry about 15 days worth of basic food supplies with them. Most basic foot soldiers had to carry the food in sarcina or pack. Wineskins were included.

Cooking equipment: Including a patera (mess tin), cooking pot and skewer. A patera was a broad, shallow dish used for drinking, primarily in a ritual context such as a libation.

Entrenching tools: Carried by legionaries to construct fortifications and dig latrines etc. Each legionary would typically carry either shovel or a mattock for digging, a turf cutting tool or a wicker basket for hauling earth.

Sudis: Stakes for construction of camps.

You can see why most legionaries tended on the buff side, carrying all this around and still being expected to fight.

_Underground prison cells_

Romans did build underground prison cells, because they made escaping more difficult and also put the prisoners in a much worse ambient that, it was theorized, left them much worse for the wear so less likely to escape and more likely to give up and confess if they needed the from them.

_License to kill_

Being a different society with different social norms, soldiers who had helped in the capture of prisoners could ask to either be involved with their treatment, tasked with it or even allowed to be the ones to kill the prisoner when the time came, if the military authorities or the authorities over them didn't decide to make a public example out of the prisoner (and even in that case, a soldier was allowed to petition to be the one to carry out the sentence).

In the case of minor prisoners who no one really cared about (not to be made examples of, not to be ransomed, not having a different fate decided for them) a soldier who had petitioned could be granted leave to end the life of the prisoner on his own terms. This is Cogidubnus's case.

_Celtic Deities (Teutates, Esus and Taranis)_

The three main deities of the celtic religion.

Teutates was one of three Celtic gods mentioned by the Roman poet Lucan in the 1st century AD, the other two being Esus ("lord") and Taranis ("thunderer). They were part of a sacred triad, to whom human sacrificial offerings were made.

In Celtic Mithology Taranis was the god of thunder worshipped essentially in Gaul, the British Isles, but also in the Rhineland and Danube regions amongst others.


	12. AN temporary

**AN**: I'm usually not the type to leave these, especially since I hate seeing a warning that a fic has been updated only to find myself cheated out of the update, but I think it necessary this time.

I'm at an Internet Cafè. This is because my connection to internet has decided to up and die on me and we don't have public wi-fi in Italy so I haven't had access to internet for a while. It wasn't a priority anyway, with what happened to my family.

We've lost a family member. It wasn't one of my parents, it wasn't one of my siblings but it was a person I was close to and losing this person threw all of us for a loop since it wasn't something we expected (it wasn't due to illness).

I'm still writing but I've been distracted by it for a long time because of this and it will take me a little more time to get the next chapter done. It is more than half-way done (and all the scenes have been outlined) but I've just begun working a new job (yay, some good news finally) and I won't get paid 'till the end of April (fucking stupid rules of the work-place) so, 'till then, I will have to rely on the generosity of my mother to buy myself precious minutes at the Internet Cafè (which means I will be rarely on, she thinks it's a good thing for me to be less on the Net). This means that updates will be spotty in coming until things get better.

Anyway, I am _**not**_ giving up this story and the two OCs I've been sent will be both part of the next chapter. Once the chapter is done I will take down this AN and post the chapter instead so you should still get the Alert, those of you who have subscribed to the story.

Thank you very much for the reviews (checking my e-mail has been the first thing I've done) and special thanks to Soaring Hawk for all the concern on your part (Ri-chan too).

Hugs to alls, I hope to have the chapter (and more Internet time) ready soon.


	13. Where we get back on track

_This chapter is going to contain mentions of torture, graphical description of violence and death. The aforementioned graphical description will include depiction of blood, fluids and death of a human being. There will also be graphic mention of a fresh corpse._

_From now on, the rating will stay M and appropriate warnings for violence, sex or triggers will be put before the chapter so that you, the readers, will be forewarned (in a way that doesn't spoiler too much spoilers of the story) of what you will be about to read._

_As an additional warning, there is a big section at the end of the chapter dedicated to both answering your reviews and to thank all the people who decided to add this story to their favorites or followed stories, so don't expect the whole length of the page to be solely the chapter. Also, explanations on why it took me so long to update instead of the promised time._

_Thank you for the attention._

**-§-break-§-**

**A. D. II Kalend. Nov. 457 A.D / 30 of October 457 A.D.**

_**-The same day-**_

**-§-Cogidubnus-§-**

The blood had mostly dried out by the time the woman drew away from him. Isabella he reminded himself, immediately shortening it to Isa in his mind. Her index finger came back to run behind and along the shell of her ear, as if tucking a non existent lock of hair behind it. A nervous tell, one Cogidubnus took note of.

He didn't coddle her, didn't say anything to her at all. Instead, he took care of releasing the body from the chains that held him up. He hoisted it on his shoulder, noting with a little bit of satisfaction that the man was a shadow of what he had been two months before, and turned back to her.

She was waiting, her eyes on him and the body both, shying away from none of it. She had put on her cloak, while he was busy with the body, and recovered the torch from the support in the wall.

"It needs to be burned. I have to give it to the _statores_ so that it will be taken care of." He explained, briefly, and she nodded, once, in answer. He waited for her to recover his _pugio_, taking it up from where it had fallen on the floor, and followed her out, closing the door behind himself and leaving her to lead the way out.

There were a couple of other prisoners down there, but they didn't appear to have woken up yet or, if they had, they were keeping silent. Cogidubnus let them be, his attention on the wom- Isa, instead.

He took her in, assessing her, for the first time _really_ taking stock of how she was made, what she already had and what needed to be worked on.

Her body was lean, in a way that belied the fact that it was never going to become overtly muscled like some other women had the potential to be. Her hands weren't delicate but a little long-fingered, which suited his purposes (and various knives's grips) well.

Her hair could be used against her in a physical battle, long as they were, but there wasn't much he could do about it. She wasn't a legionary, whose hair had to be kept short because of regulation (once again, Sarmatian didn't kept to that rule but, to be honest, neither did some Gauls, if their centurions allowed them to get away with it).

He could just tell to chop them off, but she was also a woman and women prized their hair. He resolved to mention it to her and see how she reacted, if her resolve was stronger than her vanity (he was inclined to think of the answer as a _yes_, after what she had just done, but one could never know).

"Wait for me outside." He instructed her, once they were out of the interred level and back into the upside cell block. There was no need for the _statores_ to learn of her presence now or for Cogidubnus to tip his hand about what had happened. The cloak covered the blood stains on her dress, which would have to be changed before he delivered her back to the kitchens, but it was impossible to make her pass as any kind of military recruit, if the _statores_ were to see her.

She looked at him over her shoulder, from where she was putting the torch back into it's original support, and nodded, finger going again to her ear. She was nervous, a little jittery, Cogidubnus noted.

He felt regret now, for the fact that he was going to leave on a mission in less than a few hours. It was not a good time to leave, not after this. It wasn't the worst time, and he had faith that she could keep it together and go on for as long as he was away, but it would've been better for her to have someone she could be in the company of, someone who could understand what she had done, the why and wasn't going to put be interested in putting a hand under her skirt.

He thought about it, while he took the body to the _statores_ guard room and credited the kill to the 'newbie' he had taken down. The _statores_ laughed at the butcher job, clearly finding it far more amusing than Cogidubnus did. It didn't came as a surprise, for they were Romans and he had given up on understanding Romans as a breed a long time ago.

He needed someone who was already going to be close to the girl, someone whom -_he_- trusted to be able to handle her the right way. Not coddling but neither excessively harsh, someone who understood that from time to time just standing in silence was what was needed and who wasn't going to judge or find fault in what he had made her do, because someone who would judge either of them would immediately land himself on Isa's bad side, right now.

As he came out of the prison, the wake-up call ringing out in the walls of the Fort from more than one direction, the solution came to his mind. He knew who to turn to, who to talk before he left the Fort behind, and he knew that the impeding _ientaculum_ was the perfect moment to do it.

First, though, he needed to get Isa out of the street and into a bathroom, with a change of clothes. It was better, for her, if what had happened didn't become known all over the Fort, not yet at least. More people underestimated her, weren't aware of how she really was, the better she was off, in this pit of Roman snakes.

**-§-Lamorak-§-**

Lamorak sometimes forgot how much of a son of a whore Cogidubnus could be.

It never lasted. Just when he had somehow managed to forget how much of a bastard the man was capable to be, Cogidubnus went and did something that firmly reaffirmed the concept in Lamorak's mind. Like, to make an example, shoving a knife in a woman's hand and ordering her to kill, if she wanted to learn knife fighting from him.

It wasn't as if Lamorak was protesting the need for the girl to learn how to kill, mind you. She was going to have to, sooner or later, if she was really determined to keep walking the path she was on now. Maybe only woads, if they got more daring and started coming closer to their hunting grounds, but she was going to need to be able to do it.

He wasn't even protesting the method. Prisoners were prisoners, Saxons were Saxons and neither of them were better than rabid dogs, in his opinion. More than that, it had worked and allowed her to demonstrate, both to Cogidubnus and herself, that she was much more of a warrior than any other woman Lamorak had ever met.

He just took note of the fact that only a hard bastard like Cogidubnus, or Lamorak himself, would have not only come up with that kind of test but also went through with it, without feeling the least bit remorseful about it. It reminded him of why he considered the man a brother in arms, despite his being a Gaul, and a friend, despite his love of knives (which Lamorak wasn't able to understand).

It also reminded him of just how much a son of a whore the Gaul could to be. To frame it perfectly: as much as Lamorak himself.

"I'm being sent on a mission, now. My _contubernium_ along with five others and four of your brothers. I need you to keep an eye on her for me." Cogidubnus was telling him, in between bites of his portion of bread, bacon and egg.

The Gaul didn't need to elaborate further.

While Lamorak trusted his brothers with his life, in combat and out of it, he wouldn't have trusted them with neither a daughter nor a girl he cared about. They were a good lot, but put them around a skirt and most of them seemed to forget that women had a brain, from time to time, and were as dangerous as men, in the right conditions.

On top of that, which they both knew, Cogidubnus didn't trust anyone outside of a selected few men in his own _contubernium_, Burkhard and Lamorak himself. Of this group, Lamorak was the only one who was going to be in daily contact with the woman in question.

It made sense for the Gaul to turn to him, and Lamorak wasn't going to let down the trust the man was placing in him.

"I'll do it." He nodded, for good measure, and then covered his own bread with the crispy bacon. Fuck, nothing could beat the Fort's kitchen.

**-§-Ethelind-§-**

Something had happened.

Ethelind wasn't sure of _what_ had happened, but something had. It had to do with that unsettling veteran Gaul that had come searching for Isobel for sure, since he had escorted her away and then back inside. Whatever it was, it had shaken Isobel, and it had did it _hard_.

It had also, for some reason Ethelind hadn't been made a part of and couldn't for the life of her puzzle out, required for Isobel to change her dress from her good one to one she had been wearing the night of the brawl. That dress still needed mending, it was painfully obvious, but apparently whatever happened to the other one was so bad that Isobel had felt the need to change into this other one.

Ethelind suspected it was something mud-related, at least for the dress, because Isobel had come in the kitchen looking like she had just scrubbed herself clean. Mud, though, didn't account for how much Isobel was shaken. The other woman wasn't a fun of mud, obviously, but no matter how much mud she could land in, there was _no way_ a tumble in it would have left her looking like she did now.

They were cleaning pots, scrubbing them in the kitchen's rectangular stone basin, and Isobel looked more … well, it was hard to describe how she looked. Ethelind would have said 'resigned', because that was the first word that had come up in her mind, but no one could be described as feeling that way while looking as determined as Isobel was looking.

Yet, it was almost as if she _had_ finally resigned herself, perhaps to give something important up. She had that kind of look at her, burning determination notwithstanding.

Honestly? She looked a little like her younger brother Angus had looked when he had realized that he was going to be able to learn hunting from their older brother Gallon only because the fever had taken their father away.

He had gotten what he wanted, but to a price so high that it had robbed him from the happiness of it. He had been resigned to the heavy and unwelcome change in his life, but determined to do the most out of it, if only to honor their father's memory. Isobel had that kind of look on her face and Ethelind didn't like it. _Not. One. Bit._

She had no idea of what had happened in the last couple of hours that had left Isobel looking like that, no idea of what the blasted veteran had gone and did to her, or told her, to put that look on her features. She didn't liked it, though, and she was liking even less the way Isobel had shut down and refused to talk about it with her. "Not the time nor the place" Ethelind's ass. They were alone at the basin, as away as they could get from prying ears, and it was always the time, for anything that made Isobel look like that.

Infuriatingly, her friend obviously didn't share her opinion. It made Ethelind want to hiss from the frustration. Stupid old creepy veteran and damnably stubborn Isobel. Ethelind couldn't simply let it go and ignore the fact that the man had very obviously upset her best friend!

If Isobel didn't come out with it on her own, Ethelind was going to have to resort to the heavy weapons. Wine after dinner (because, _in vino veritas_ as the Romans had so nicely put it) and, in case that failed, Ethelind was going to go and use the Aqua Vitae, Gods help her the coming morning.

**-§-Dinadan-§-**

It was early for Tristan to be already departing, according to Jols.

Dinadan knew it because he knew wounds, but also because Jols had made his opinion known to everyone in the Healing Rooms and then went on to go and made it known to Arthur himself.

Another thing Dinadan that knew was that, no matter what Jols thought, Tristan was going to depart with the other soldiers and there was going to be no way to keep him in the Fort, now that the decision had been taken, the orders issued and Tristan himself briefed.

It was why he avoided wasting his breath trying to dissuade him. Instead, he took Tristan's gear to the Healing Rooms, to spare his stubborn brother in arms the trip. Besides, it wasn't as if he didn't have another argument to waste his breath on, with Tristan.

"You want her, she wants you. Talk with Lancelot and square it out." He told Tristan, voice low, as he watched the other man, who was busy putting on his armor with slow and careful movements that belied the tenderness of his barely healed wounds.

"Lancelot gave her his cloak." Tristan muttered, looking sourly at Dinadan. His friend would have surely either ignored or denied the truth behind Dinadan's statement to anyone else, but they were from the same tribe and as close as brothers could get. Dinadan was probably the only person Tristan was going to talk with, about this. It was probably for the best, since Tristan had a tendency towards pig-headed nobility that usually ended up biting him in the ass, as demonstrated by the case at hand.

"Lancelot hasn't fucked her yet." He muttered to Tristan, who just scowled and made half a shrug, as if to say it didn't matter. Which, okay, it kind of didn't since Lancelot had clearly serious intentions for the girl, but it also kind of did, because it meant that _she_ hadn't chosen _him_ yet and there was no guarantee she was going to chose him, at the moment.

"She hasn't said yes, yet. You may have a chance, a really good one, if you work a little at it." He insisted. Dinadan was Tristan's friend and Lancelot could go and get himself quartered before Dinadan would take his side over Tristan's in a dispute, of any kind.

True, Tristan was a rough man and women should trade lightly around him but that was because he didn't had much experience with them, girls at the brothel excluded from the count. Give him time and a girl he actually cared about and he would learn. That was what the only thing he needed, in Dinadan's view. Tristan didn't share his opinion, which was a fucking shame because it made everything far more complicated that it had to be.

"Lancelot saw her first. He's one of my brothers. I won't disrespect him by going after a woman he wants." Tristan answered through his teeth, yanking the straps of his armor too tight than what was needed, with far more force than necessary. Iseult, who was perched on a raft over their heads, screeched in a way that looked even less friendly than the usual fare. Given how much she was attuned to her owner's mood, Dinadan took it as a confirmation that Tristan's temper was rising fast.

"What if she says no to him?" Dinadan inquired. Tristan's hand froze on the straps, which Dinadan took to mean that the man hadn't even considered the possibility. It made him want to smirk, because it was possible for women to reject Lancelot, especially if Dinadan threw his lot in. It wasn't as if he hadn't ways to put her off the other man, even without taking her into his own bed.

"She won't." Tristan told him briskly, face clouding. Dinadan didn't say anything at that, just smirked and shrugged, as if to say that one could never know. Tristan looked at him suspiciously and then shrugged his own shoulders.

"She's Roman-born and as close to a patrician as she can be." Tristan's voice was flat, unemotional, and Dinadan had to smother his laugh, before it could come out and made his friend mad. He barely managed it.

"Why yes, she is, and yet she goes around wearing Lancelot's cloak and gifting bought apples to you." He answered, eyes drifting to the little sack of apples that was lying on Tristan's bed in a meaningful way. He was as aware as his friend was of the lines traced by their standing in the Castrum, barbarians versus supposedly civilized people, he simply chose to not give a shit about it. "If she doesn't care about it, why should you?" He tacked on, expressing his thought out loud for his friend to hear.

Tristan answered with a dark look, that implied far too much than what Dinadan was willing to put up with. His friend had a clear cut opinion of who he was, what he did and how much that made him different from the civilians the Castrum held.

Where Lancelot dressed himself up in words and smiles, Tristan wore his hunter nature proudly and displayed it unveiled and for everyone to see. It was what made him one of the most feared of the Sarmatians, but also what made him think that the woman deserved better.

He had always been prone to this, but it had become much worse after that accident with the girl and his father had gone down during the period of his training. It had been the kick in the guts that Tristan, and his attitude, hadn't needed and had made him far more wary and glum. It wasn't self-loathing, because Tristan had pride in who he was, but, rather, a look at reality slanted in a negative light.

A load of bullshit, if one asked Dinadan.

Especially when it could cripple Tristan's chances with a willing woman.

"Cut it off." He grumbled, irritated. "Since she wants you, she will make it known sooner or later. I hope you'll have wise up by then, enough to jump on the occasion." He told his friend, hoping that his words would give him something to think on as he scouted out for the leaving _contubernium_. He couldn't really hope for anything else.

**-§-Lamorak-§-**

The woman was put together, with a look in her eyes that made Lamorak want to nod approvingly.

He had been waiting for her, outside the Barracks, aware that she was going to have to leave them to go to Father Claudius's church on the other side of the Fort. Lancelot had been there too, but Lamorak had easily dispatched him by ordering him to go rouse up the others and begin training cavalry maneuvers. The youngest batch of knights still had a tendency to fall back into riding in battle like a band of barbarians, instead of a compact military unit, if they were allowed to get lax on the drills. Lamorak and Dinadan constantly battled against that, using their field seniority to order them into training.

Dragging himself from his own thoughts, before he could get too distracted by them, Lamorak offered a gruff nod of the head to the girl, who had slowed down seeing him, and a hard stare to her much more impressed friend, who had looked mad but now was looking torn between being madder at the sight of him or what looked like an ingrained fear.

"I'm here to escort you to Father Claudius church." Lamorak said to the girl and she nodded, just once, turning to her friend to exchange a few words he didn't pay much attention to. Her movements were sharper, he noted, and more purposeful, he added once the two of them started walking. She still looked ahead of herself, as she had done the previous day, but she also glanced at him, every couple of steps, in a way that made him feel examined and weighted. Good thinking on her part, to reassess her impressions and opinions.

"Cogidubnus has left the Fort, with his _contubernium_, for a mission." He told her, when he was sure her friend wasn't following them and that no one was really giving them attention, except for the customary curious glances to the woman at his side and the ever so customary wary looks thrown his way.

She nodded, which made him realize that Cogidubnus probably had already told her, but pressed her lips together as a little color leeched away from her face. So she knew, but she was unhappy about it. It didn't bother Lamorak, since she wasn't griping about it. He couldn't stand griping people.

"He told me, when he was escorting me to the kitchens." She informed him, her voice trying to be carefully neutral but succeeding only in being slightly cracked. A little color crept back in her face, clearly from the embarrassment of being unable to affect as much calm and indifference as she wanted.

"Good." Lamorak nodded, slowing down his steps and waiting for her to change her speed to match his. Once she did, he slowed even more and waited, again, for her to do the same. He then stopped and waited until she turned her head towards him, looking at him with wary eyes and what looked like suspicion.

Her face was easily read, everything just right in the front, and there was no mistaking the way she was squaring her shoulder and drawing her head slightly higher. She showed no regrets. Instead, she was getting ready to defend herself and Cogidubnus from the whole world if that was what was needed. Lamorak was starting to actually like her, instead of being just curious but ultimately indifferent. He could see why Cogidubnus would be positively impressed enough to ask Lamorak to watch out for her in his stead.

"I approve of what he had you do, down in the cells." He told her, cutting straight to the heart of the matter without giving too much away. It was what Lamorak usually did, because making big circles around the heart of any kind of matter had a tendency to easily end up badly. It either gave an opponent the time to strike out at him or the person he was talking with the time to make up who knew how many stupid ideas about where the conversation was heading.

She blinked, her eyes going wide and her mouth slightly opening for a moment, before she shut both tightly, drawing a deep breath, her hands fisting in the cloak for a few seconds. The girl let the cloak go when she opened her eyes again, looking him straight into his own and giving him a firm nod.

"I am Domina Isabella Antonia. I am _not_ going to rely on others to be protected. I _know_ protection will not always be granted to me. I _will not_ die if I can help it. I _won't_ shy from killing others if it means _I_ will live on." She told him, her head held high and her voice measured, low in volume but as determined as that of a seasoned warrior.

It sounded, to Lamorak's ears, like the kind of words some of the men he had served with had repeated to themselves, in an effort of maintain their sanity, of maintaining their sense of who they were and why they had done what they had. He himself had had a few of his own, once.

"I am Lamorak of the tribe of my namesake. I hail from Sarmatia and I will rain death on my enemies until I'll find someone strong enough to bring upon my death." He answered, looking her in the eyes like he would have done with another warrior, like he had many a time done with Cogidubnus, whose words Lamorak knew as well as his very own. He gripped her shoulder and her hand came up, gripping his wrist as if recognizing his salutation and giving him one of her own.

They did not say anything else, not when Lamorak brought down his hand nor when they started walking again and not even when he left her at the church. They only exchanged nods and went down their different ways, her inside the church and him back towards the training grounds.

There was no need for them to talk.

Domina Isabella Antonia and Lamorak of the tribe of his namesake had looked in each other faces and found a person worthy of their respect, someone they could trust they would be able to turn to when the other person's experience and skills would be needed.

**-§-Father Claudius-§-**

The _sui iris_ was not shaping up to be what he had expected her to be, not at all.

Father Claudius had listened to his Praetor's explanations and observations of the woman, getting the story of a determined but quiet person who was obedient and very respectful.

He had found his Praetor to be correct in his assessment of this qualities.

Yet, the way the Praetor had talked of her had left Father Claudius waiting for a woman who, while able to display both a strong force of will and an inclination towards rash actions, when she felt provoked, was more akin to a quiet little mouse than anything else. Upon looking on young Isobel's face and into her eyes, Father Claudius had found himself staring down the eyes of a fiery stallion instead. One who would not be tamed unless he decided he wanted to.

Since the Praetor was, usually, an observant man and not one prone to jest, especially about such important things at the argument of the _sui iris_, Father Claudius quickly decided that something had happened to change the woman's attitude and put that kind of look in her eyes.

The one on her face wasn't a look that he was used to see, not on a woman's face.

Living as he did in the Castrum, and having been assigned to the Ninth Legion from the first moment he had stepped out of the monastery he had been instructed in, Father Claudius had seen more than his share of soldiers.

From veterans to young recruits, the priest had had the time to get to know how the men looked during their whole career, the time to get experienced in recognizing the various expressions they could display. He had seen women too, the wives or kin of the soldiers, go through everything that the military life led by their families dumped on their shoulders. He had seen many a determined woman in both his life and his years of serving the church, but it was the first time that, on a Roman woman's face, he saw the look of a soldier who knew how it felt to kill someone.

It had worried him, made him wary of the woman. How had she managed to kill someone in the last few days without the Praetor noticing? How was it possible for a woman, any woman, to kill and take it with that kind of calm and determination? Had she perhaps fooled the Praetor and the men around her in thinking she wasn't a killer when she actually was? If that was the case, why was she showing her true colors to him, of all? Possibly she didn't thought of him as a menace or bright enough to catch on the truth? Or maybe something had happened and the Praetor hadn't had the time to come and inform him about it?

It had taken all of Father Claudius aplomb and cold blood to welcome her into his church and led her to sit with all the innocent children that had come to receive their morning lessons. The boys had all been curious, as was natural, about the grown up woman sitting with them. Father Claudius had soon found himself using maybe a little more sternness than what was necessary in keeping them concentrated on their work.

The woman, while as ignorant as he had expected her to be, had taken to his lessons like a fish to water, quickly mastering the stylus to a level that left many a boy eying her with badly disguised envy as she traced remarkably good looking letters on her tablets, at her first try even.

She had what looked like a natural talent for writing and, hadn't Father Claudius been far too aware of what her face had given away to him, he would have found himself deeply interested in trying to entice her away from the weapons and more aggressive side of her interests and towards church-related interests. Instead, he found himself dreading having to talk with Praetor Castus about what he had seen in the woman's face when he had met her on the door of his church.

That was before the lessons for the day were done, before the woman waited for the kids to get out of the church and back to their mothers, who had uncharacteristically come to take them home (surely to try to catch a glimpse of the _sui iris_).

It was before the woman stepped closer and asked him to take her confession.

**-§-Nerilla-§-**

_Mater_ had talked a lot about the _sui iris_, both when _Pater_ had been with them and when he hadn't. It had made Nerilla curious to see how a _sui iris_ was, since she had never heard _Mater_ talk about a woman the way she had talked about the _sui iris_.

In Nerilla's mind, after hearing _Mater_ and her friends talk about her, the _sui iris_ had become a woman as tall as many a warrior, a warrior creature out of the tales she wasn't supposed to have heard about because they were reserved only for the boys. Nerilla heard and knew a lot of things that were supposed to be reserved only for the boys or that weren't meant for her ears, it was one of the perks of having become as she good as she was to sneaking around.

_Mater_ and _Pater_ didn't really care for her, except for trying to find someone to marry her off to that wasn't too disgraceful, and that had allowed her a good deal more freedom than any other roman girl of the Castrum had been allowed to have. As long as Nerilla was always clean, presentable and on time for her lessons and the meals no one really bothered to check on her, which left her with a great deal of free time to sneak out and around.

It had allowed her to, secretly, become friends with Suibhne, the son of one of the Britons in charge of the stables and one of the kitchen maids. It had been through him that Nerilla had learned that the _sui iris_ was going to be at the Church taking the same lessons that all the sons of the legionaries were allowed to receive, whether they were Romans or not, and it was him who had lagged behind and helped her sneak into the building once they were sure that the others were all gone and only the _sui iris_ and Father Claudius remained.

The church was a difficult place to sneak in, because there weren't that many things that could be used to hide behind or in. It often smelled of incense, though never as much as during the most important Mass functions, and incense was difficult to get out of one's hair or dresses as a smell. Still it was far better for Nerilla to smell of incense, which was explained with an impulse come out of piousness, than, let's say, hay (she only smelled like hay whenever Suibhne had helped her sneak in the stables to look at the horses). So she wasn't overtly preoccupied about the smell that was going to cling to her heavy winter tunic, as much as she was about the fact that if Father Claudius and the _sui iris_ turned towards them they would see them as clear as the day, if they didn't find somewhere to hide behind.

Suibhne, who was eleven winters old (one less than her) and smelled not only of hay but of horses too, tugged on her wrist and Nerilla followed him, trusting his innate instincts. Suibhne was even better at sneaking off than her, but that was probably because if Suibhne got caught his father would lash him again. Nerilla, who had never been lashed in her whole life but had seen the signs on Suibhne's back, considered the fear of being lashed a really good incentive to learn how to sneak away, out and around _without_ getting discovered.

Still, even as she followed him to hide behind the heavy, wooden entrance door (see? Suibhne always knew where the best places to hid were!) Nerilla couldn't help but keep her eyes glued to the _sui iris_ back.

The woman was _tall_!

Nerilla had never seen a Roman as tall as her, tall enough to look in the eyes most of the warriors, at least! Roman women were less tall and more shaped like hourglasses than lean like the _sui iris_ was. _Mater_ had commented about having heard that the _sui iris_ didn't looked like a pureblood Roman, like _Mater_ and her friends and Nerilla herself were. _Mater_ had clearly meant it as a slight, but Nerilla didn't saw things the same way as her, as usual.

In Nerilla's eyes, the _sui iris_ was the most interesting and fascinating woman she had ever seen. Next to her, wriggling to poke his head out from under her elbow, Suibhne watched the _sui iris_ with the same kind of awe that Nerilla felt her face was showing.

"That's Lancelot's cloak that she's wearing!" Suibhne told her in a hushed voice, making her eyes widen as she looked at the heavy cloak that was draped on the _sui iris _shoulders. Her _Mater_ had said something about a Sarmatian barbarian following the _sui iris_ around like a puppy, but she had never said that it was Lancelot!

"Are you sure?" Nerilla whispered to him, squinting her eyes a little to better see the cloak.

"Yes! It's his favorite, because it's heavier than usual and he payed a high price to have it done as he liked!" He related to her, in a breathless voice. His knowledge of gossip was another reason why Suibhne was a good friend to keep around. There was almost nothing that went on in the Castrum that didn't reach the stables in record time, and Suibhne often was there, helping his father out and learning the family trade.

Nerilla knew all of the Sarmatians by name, had even seen most of them from her favorite hidden place in the stables when they came to retrieve their horses or care for them. Suibhne had helped her discover that perch, little and high in the walls, but accessible if one was willing to climb up. He had even brought a little ruined blanket to it so that Nerilla could get comfortable in it whenever she found herself having to scamper up and inside to avoid being found in the stables.

While Nerilla's favorite Sarmatian was Galahad, so young and handsome that she blushed just by looking at him, Lancelot wasn't that bad either. He was one of the more well-known of the Sarmatians and one of the most boisterous. He didn't have the serious demeanor of Galahad, which made Galahad's smiles and laughs all the more precious in Nerilla's eyes, but he was handsome and lively, in a way that made Nerilla blush a little (but just a little!) for him too.

The _sui iris_ must have been even more incredible than she had ever thought, if Lancelot himself had felt it necessary to give her his cloak. Nerilla had heard more than enough of _Mater_ gossiping to know that it was the kind of gift that meant a man was interested in courting a woman all for himself. Oh this was _so_ much better than dying of boredom in her room while working on her stitching!

And then things went from better than dying of boredom to being the most interesting moment of her whole year, because Gawain entered the church and her field of vision, once he was over the door. A few beats passed and then, just as Gawain called out the name "Isobel!" (of which Nerilla took dutiful note), things became straight up heavenly when Galahad came into her field of vision.

Nerilla would have squeaked out in utter surprise and delight, hadn't Suibhne had the presence of mind to slap a hand on her mouth. He _really_ was _that _great of a friend to have around.

**-§-Galahad-§-**

The Christian priest looked disturbed, when he and Isobel turned towards Gawain. Whatever the two of them had been talking about, it had left Isobel looking calm, in a sad way, and the man shaken. It was strange, since the man had been with the Legion long before Galahad had ever been assigned to it and was a veteran at dealing with the heavy shit that soldiers had to unload, or at least the one from the Christian soldiers. Probably something about Isobel being a woman had disturbed him, where he had become accustomed to the normal tales of killing and war the soldiers shared. Galahad mentally shrugged and shelved the argument.

"Gawain, Galahad." The woman in question nodded towards them, once she had said her goodbyes to the priest and left him near the altar. She had a smile for Gawain, but all Galahad got was a cold glance that made him want to wince, even as he greeted her. He supposed he had earned it, what with not having yet been able to corner her and offer his sincere apology (against the apology that Arthur had forced him to issue) for the way he had treated her and what he had told her.

It was what he had hoped to do, once he had managed to get out of the maneuvers that Lamorak had been drilling into them. Galahad had escaped by claiming that he was going to see how Gawain was, since his friend was getting out of the Healing Rooms. Gawain's brothers hadn't objected, possibly because they hadn't known what Galahad was up to when he had sided up to Lamorak. The older knight had allowed him to go, if only to stop Gawain from upsetting his stitches.

Tristan, who had been less heavily injured, had been cleared to go and had even already left on another mission, but Gawain was being released from the Healing Rooms only under the condition that he would not upset his wounds, allowing them the time to knit themselves shut and scar. That and Gawain had bitched long enough and loud enough that Jols had given up and decided that if he was well enough to be such a pain in the ass than he was well enough to go sleep in his own bed and lazy around somewhere where he couldn't get on Jol's nerves.

Galahad had confided in Gawain, about the fact that Isobel had been the one who helped sewing the older knight shut. His friend had agreed that a private apology was more than due, though Gawain's presence in the church was justified only by his boundless curiosity. The man simply hadn't been able to help himself, not when it came to meeting again the woman who not only had captured Lancelot's attention, but had also been able to deal with Tristan's stupidly temperamental bird.

"Are you here for me? I do not have a need of a permanent Sarmatian escort, I hope you realize that." Isobel replied, eyebrows arching slightly even as her eyes betrayed the amusement in the statement. Galahad snorted, as Gawain laughed, because both were able to see the truth of her words, given the events of the last few days.

"I never doubted it, but I wanted to see you." Gawain answered, mirth in his voice as he offered her his most beautiful smile. "Also, Galahad has something he needs to tell you." He added, still flaunting his smile, as Galahad nodded. Isobel's eyes changed from friendly to cautious and she brought a hand up to brush a lock of hair away from her face.

"Oh? See me about what?" She inquired and Galahad felt suddenly very glad that his friend had insisted to come. Gawain had both a gift for words and a way with women that Galahad lacked and hadn't ever really cared to acquire (it wasn't like it was needed for him to bed them, after all). It was only rarely that he found himself in situations like the present one, where talking and being able to charm his way in a woman's good graces was his objective. Usually things where smoother when Gawain was with him, in such occasions. Thank the gods.

"Speaking for myself, it has come to my attention that you have helped sewing my wounds, though you weren't duty bound to do as much, unlike the Roman Healers. I wanted to thank you and inquire about what you would like to receive as a token of my gratitude for the help you lent them." Gawain explained. His offer came a bit as a surprise but, at the same time, Galahad felt like he really should have known.

Gawain had always been inclined to this kind of gestures, after all, making himself out to be the kindest of their group and a rival to Lancelot for the role of the most popular with the ladies. Being injured clearly wasn't going to stop him from trying to ingratiate himself with a woman, especially one Lancelot was interested in.

Isobel's eyes widened almost comically and then she flushed, looking touched and embarrassed by the offer in equal parts. She dragged the folds of her cloak, which Galahad recognized as having been Lancelot's, a little more closed around herself.

The movement attracted attention to the Sarmatian brooch that was closing the cloak, a fine one at that. One that had surely come from Lancelot too. Galahad had no doubt that the gesture had been done on purpose, making a gift to her into a nice remainder that she was supposed to be off limits for anyone else.

"Ah, but there's no need for one! I just did what I could and-" Isobel voice had been rushed and her cheeks tinging pink as she tried to explain herself, but she trailed off when her eyes focused on someone behind Gawain, her voice dying in her throat.

Gawain turned and Galahad turned his face enough to see who or what she was looking at and noticed a young, obviously Roman, girl making her way towards them with a smile on her face. She was lowering her arm, as if she had had it up to catch Isobel's attention.

Who the fuck?

**-§-End Chapter-§-**

Author Note

The OC Nerilla has been suggested by Soaring Hawk, so all the appreciation for her should go to her creator! I personally find her extremely amusing and entertaining to write.

So, bit of a cliffhanger, this time around.

This chapter was initially meant to be much longer and conclude the whole day, but then my life decided it was time to frak me over (more than it already had)

First my mother decided out of blue to go to live in London, just as I was starting a minimum wage job in a center for people with physical disabilities and psychic problems, then my terabyte (basically, the external disk on which I had all of my stories and notes) died on me and I had to start back from scratch and then my laptop got splashed with water by an idiot and I had to do without a computer for a few months, struggling with my bills while trying to get together the money to get myself a new computer.

tl;dr : my life decided it was not a year for me writing.

I managed to get a new computer a few weeks ago, and restore my internet connection only slightly later, and I discovered that a friend of mine had some of my things from when I'd sent them to her to get her opinion and maybe a bit of beta-reading done, so I managed to rescue enough material to rewrite this.

I don't know how long it will take me to write the rest of the day out but I swear, I'm gonna get it done. I'm not abandoning this story nor you, my faithful readers.

You have all been wonderful, wonderful people and it's made me teary to open my email for the first time in months and find all the reviews, the well wishes and the favorites and alerts. You are all great persons and I'm lucky to have you all as reviewers. Thank you, thank you from my heart.

Answers to your awesome reviews for the previous chapter and all the ones you sent me during the hiatus

JenksGirl – Thanks for adding me to both your favorites and your alerts!

Soaring Hawk – Thank you for all the reviews and for having stuck with the story all this time! Less Cogidubnus this time around, but he will come back in the story! As you can see I'm already putting your OC to good use, thank you very much for giving me a chance to play with her! Your concern for my well-being was also very touching, I've really appreciated all the comments you've left me! Thankfully, we've managed to start moving on after the death of my relative. The job is hard and under paid but it is rewarding in a spiritual sense, so I think it's worth it. As you can see, I'm not giving up :D

forestreject – Ahahahahah yes, Cogidubnus is kind of fixated on the fur, but with the winter coming in it has its own sense as an obsession, especially in a place as drafty and cold as the one he's living into. I'm happy you liked so much the last chapter.

Ri-chan – Though very much late, I'm sorry that your week was hectic back then, and I'm happy my story made it better. I'll try to make good use of everyone's Ocs. You've all come up with incredibly good ideas and very interesting characters for me to play with! Thanks, also, for the concern you showed, it was really heartening. I'm sorry about not keeping in touch by I was a bit overwhelmed by life. Now, though, things are getting better and everything's looking up.

Spooks94 – I kinda get the same feeling from Cogidubnus that you got. He's a veteran, old and grizzled and quite gruff, usually. Your rambling was both very interesting and instructive, so it was very welcome and yes, I meant French Creole, though from what I've heard of the cajun accent it sounds like something I'd like.

RabidReader – I'm sorry to have deprived you of the weekly update for so many months and, though _very_ belatedly I'm sorry about your stubbed toe, I hope it recovered well! I hope the new chapter was worth the wait :)

Kristall – I'm happy you liked the last chapter so much. Sadly Cogidubnus is still a soldier, so how much he can be there for her is still limited to his duties and the Castrum doesn't cater to a woman's needs. As you can see, though, he's made sure she won't just abandoned to herself and has trusted her only in the hands of someone he feels competent enough to take care of her. The Roman's plan to marry her off will come out soon, don't worry ;) Thanks also for the messages you sent me and the support you offered! Your OC will appear soon, I was very interested in reading what you sent me :)

Caranaraf – Thanks for adding my story to your alerts!

KissingThorn – Thanks for adding my story to your favorites!

Scottjunkie – Harsh but necessary, yes. I'm trying to make a point of recognizing the linguistic barriers, at the time, which is why I've mentioned so much other languages but, yes, the saxon language may end up being relevant at a later point in time, good on you to notice :D

evliria – Thanks for adding me at your Alerts!

cleo nightingale – Thanks for choosing my story as one you want to be Alerted about! I'm satisfied you like Iseult's POV and I agree with your analysis of the Lancelot vs Tristan's situation. Isobel is more attracted to Tristan than she is to Lancelot but attraction is not everything so we'll have to see how it develops.

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Melantha of Troy - Your OC will come into play soon, I think the next chapter or the one after that! Thanks for the message you sent to me!

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kylynnjen – Thanks for adding my story to your list of Alerts! I haven't read the story you recommended but I'll try to check it out. I'll try to be more careful with my word tenses, thanks for taking the time to make me notice that problem, I really appreciate it!

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Jeeperonastool – Thanks for adding my story to both your Alerts and Favorites! Hee, nice to have a Isobel/Tristan shipper on board and I'm sorry for your loss, as late as my condolences come.

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selene344 – Thank you so very much for putting my story in your Alerts and Favorites and for choosing to put me as an author in your alert list! It has made me blush to know you've appreciated so much my work :D Yes, history is indeed awesome, I completely agree with you :D. Yeah, I noticed all the discrepancies. Honestly? The movie kinda didn't care about those details. I've done my best to patch them up as I can but some things had to be sacrificed or stretched a bit to make them fit. Hee, I'm really happy you liked Iseult's POV! Thanks also for your sympathy :)

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Guest - I'm sorry I didn't update soon, as you asked, but real life didn't leave me with much of a choice.

Guest – Don't know if you were the same guest or not but, as you can see, in the end I have indeed updated :)

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Sarasva – Thanks for choosing to add my story to both your Favorites and Alerts, but most of all for you wonderful review! I'm happy you persevered in reading story despite your initial doubts and that you find out you liked it. I'm also really satisfied that Isobel comes off as a character you can empathize with, someone you can understand and root for because I strive for that :) Welcome to the fandom!

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Historical Notes

Nothing much on this front this time around, next chapter will have a few of those tho, for those of you who enjoy them :)


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